A Falling Hourglass
by Redwall Readers Troupe
Summary: Far north of Mossflower, a settlement has taken hold in the ruins of Marshank. Here, the Crucible determines the righteous and the guilty- with a fight to the death between the two parties. One wildcat took advantage of this and turned the fortress into a deathmatch arena. This is the story of five wayward souls, trapped within a brutal culture.
1. Black Rain

_This story was originally going to be a prologue to the Redwall Survivor Contest- Mossflower Odyssey IV: Beasts in the Crater. It has since been revised to be a standalone._

 _A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Black Rain**

 _By: Drugaen Vikkars_

* * *

A black rain fell from the sky.

Vikkars shook his head slowly. He was lying on his side in the dirt.

 _Too quickly, and the pain made his vision white. It was... as if he were living a dream that wouldn't escape him... seeing dead faces on living beasts, and now black water falling from the sky._

And yet, he watched as his open paws collected small, wet puddles of darkness that continued to fall from a black sky. Vikkars looked to his left; a whimpering pine marten was dying, an arrow stabbed deep in his lung. Death finally quieted the beast. Vikkars rasped a chuckle.

 _A white blob of pain clouded his right eye, and he couldn't-_

He tried to rise to his booted footpaws, but his strength gave out and he collapsed back against the boulder, a trembling bloodied visage of a soldier king. He was Drugaen Vikkars, the final King of Illmarsh.

"Faek praise us," a familiar voice said. Two blurry shadows -one larger than the other- moved at his peripheral, and he felt paws around his torso. Lieutenant Goran hoisted him upright, careful of the blood dripping from Vikkars' left shoulder. The ferret winced and bit the inside of his cheek as he steadied himself with his chipped sword.

"Your dreams were fitful since we left the rear guard station," Goran said, righting the iron crown on Vikkars' head.

"How long?" Vikkars asked, closing his eyes.

 _Drums in the deep… or was that thunder?_

"Four hours or so," Goran said.

Vikkars blinked several times and inhaled slowly. "Four hours... and our retreat from the battlefield?"

"Aye," Goran said. "Still in enemy territory." He nodded curtly to his king. "We move on?"

Vikkars stared him down silently. He knew if Goran looked too deeply into his eyes, he could find fever, hatred, fear and fury, plus anything else he would imagine to burden his king and keep him bedridden, and out of reach of his sword.

 _Black rain... from the- the soot... the fires. Our corpses. The ash and soot… that's why the rain is black..._

The ferret's eyes grew wide suddenly, and he straightened his posture as best as he could.

"Five hours from the field," he muttered. His throat felt like a furnace full of burning coals, and he gave a terrible cough. Once he was composed Vikkars wiped at his own mouth with a bloody armored glove, then raised his gaze to the ebony skies. "And still the fires chase us."

"They be burnin' for weeks, likely," the weasel opposite of Goran said, leaning on the pole that once bore the standard of House Drugaen.

Goran hissed at the weasel through his teeth, but Vikkars spoke first.

"Aye, they'll burn... for days and nights... and those fires are the bodies of your brothers. And your sisters. Your wife, your children, your home. It all burns." He narrowed his eyes at the weasel. "Do you care so little for those who sacrificed their all for you? Your pitiful life?"

The weasel only shrugged. "An' for yours, sire."

Vikkars responded first again. A flick of his wrist buried one of his knives deep into the skull of the insolent weasel, the body of which fell backwards into an arctic willow bush. The king stumbled forward after the throw, but Goran's paws steadied him before he could fall.

"My life?" Vikkars growled. He slapped Goran's paws away and brought himself to the ground, tugging his weapon free. He wiped the blade clean on the deceased's tunic and sheathed it at his side, heaving an exhausted sigh. "It's no wonder we lost back there, Goran."

The lieutenant lowered his head and echoed the sigh. "It's not his fault, sire," he spoke quietly.

"Speak up!" Vikkars barked.

Goran looked the ferret in the eye again. "We all fought for you, sire. He too fought, just as your vanguard fought, tooth and claw, gougin' and slashin' and bitin' until we drowned in their blood, and still they came. We didn't think about our losses; we didn't stop to think about being outnumbered. We saw you on the field, and we knew what had to be done. We did it for you, sire."

"For me?" Vikkars gave a heartless chuckle. "It means nothing if you lose."

"It means something if they believed in what they died for," Goran replied.

Deep thunder rumbled overhead.

"Damn him, anyways."

"A suggestion m'lord? ...The captains of our enemies will come looking for you, once they cannot count you among the corpses." Goran wiped wet soot from his eyes, and offered his left glove to Vikkars. "We move on?"

The bloodied king accepted the helping paw up to his footpaws, careful of his tender left shoulder. "We move on," Vikkars confirmed hoarsely.

Goran gestured toward the end of the woven path between pale white rocks and sickly wintry plant life. "We still have soldiers left, sire... some of your vanguard survived the fight, and we're stumbling across others in small pockets."

"Put your arm to good use, Goran," Vikkars said. "I'm not myself yet."

Goran leaned towards the ferret, and Vikkars slung his right arm over the lieutenant's shoulder, and listened for a moment as his follower told him of the slaughter at Farrahwall's fields. But he could not keep his mind from clouding up and wanderin as they made their way through the seemingly eternal twilight brought upon by the dark precipitation showering the countryside. The scenery did not seem to change much as they climbed and fell across unfamiliar terrain, their pace all but crawling.

 _Five hours from battle, where thousands of soldiers were slaughtered screaming for the dying glory of House Drugaen. Where do we go from here? Only the sea lies to the west, and we have no friends in the east-_

"Sire!"

Vikkars felt fury flow through him as his head exploded in sudden, nauseating pain. Somebeast was shaking him-

"You need to drink this, sire!"

Lukewarm liquid hit his lips and started down his throat. His stomach heaved, and he gave back the liquid, plus some. Goran turned his head at the sudden expulsion, but stayed close to Vikkars, the outstretched bowl ready with more medicinal liquid to offer.

"Fever seized you," explained Goran, easing the bowl back after Vikkars took his fill. "We had to camp for the night. At least, I think it was night. The skies betray the true hour."

The ferret king shivered and growled at Goran. He didn't see the titanic rock nearby; skeletal trees draped the horizon for as far as he could see. Ahead of them, numerous Drugaen soldiers were crouched around a smouldering fire. "Wh-where?"

"We put the rising sun to left and headed south and east," the stoat follower finished the contents of the bowl himself. "Nothing northwards but icy mountains and terrible gremlins hidden in the snow, remember?"

Vikkars shut his eyes in frustration, cursing his uncontrollable tremors. "I-i-islands, or in-inlets?"

Goran shook his head. "We passed the rock, but the foul marshes are haunting us. Scouts say we'll be among them for at least seven days."

"Hellstench."

All around them the first signs of winter were falling from the sky. Flakes landed on the lieutenant, who pulled a white pelt coat tighter around his armor.

The mountain weasel leaned closer to Vikkars, eyes betraying his fear. "We're pursued, sire... I don't know how they tracked us, but your vanguard are quite keen, and we'll keep you safe."

"Pursued?" Vikkars strained his aching muscles and fought for focus. "How many?"

"Two-score, at least. Mostly lightly armed soldiers- pikes and spears, most like. Clustered half a day's march behind." Once more Goran righted the crown on Vikkars' head and grinned. "But like I said, your vanguard is here, and I'll make sure nobeast ever- Faek... on your guards, lads!"

Goran dropped his support of Vikkars, and the ferret struck the ground head-first, hard and unforgiving. His snout burst a hot spray of blood, and he coughed dust from his mouth. His arms felt dead and limp, and nothing worked below his waist. He tried rising with his forearms...

"Protect your lord!" Shouted Goran from somewhere nearby, drawing his axe. "Protect the king!"

Vikkars heard the clamor of scuffling and shifting weight. All around him the sounds of warfare were sounding off again. Grunts of exertion gave way to cries of triumph. Suddenly he heard footpaws approaching. Before he was able to crawl away, the blunt end of a spear struck him in the back.

"Ooo, we got a king here, lads?" a foreign voice said in cruel humor.

A portly shrew hoisted Vikkars to eye level, slapped his paws in iron cuffs before sneering at him.

The shrew sharply turned to his followers and added, "Round 'em up, boys -all the ones we've caught- we can take them back to the fort with us."

"My soldiers are going to come back for me," hissed Vikkars to his aggressor. "They'll come back for me, and they'll tear all of you apart."

Vikkars spat blood in the shrew's eyes and grinned before howling in agony. Another soldier socked him across the face with the butt of their spear, and the ferret collapsed in a heap.

"This one is quite the fighter! Lord Cain is gonna _love_ him," somebeast said, before everything went dark.


	2. I See A Red Door

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **I See A Red Door**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

Tope stamped the mud from his boots as best he could before entering the small wooden shop. Why every apothecary had to be so dimly lit he couldn't guess, with the candles putting out just enough light to guide him past the rows of dried herbs and baskets of roots and berries. His nose wrinkled at the overwhelming aroma.

"Oy! Anybeast workin' 'ere?"

"Just a moment, sir!" a squeaky voice came from beyond the doorway ahead of him.

Tope's brown and white fur bristled as a middle-aged hedgehog stepped through the doorway, the leaves of an overgrown fern spilling over her paws as she carried it to the counter. A heartbeat later, he reminded himself to breathe as his fists slowly unclenched. _She ain't the one I'm lookin' for._

Wiping loose leaves from her paws on her brown apron, she asked, "Now, what can I do for you, sir?"

He drew his bowler hat off his head and forced a charming smile across his lip. "I'm tryin' t' catch up with a beast similar t' yerself, miss. Followed 'is trail north from Cloverton, an' some'un 'ere said you might know 'im."

"That's possible. I get all sorts in here."

Details etched into his memory, he continued, "He was a slave when I saw 'im five years ago. Went by the name August, a hedgehog and an 'ealer like yerself."

She leaned against the counter. "I'm more of a gardener than a healer, but go on."

"Well, he had a nasty scar over 'is right shoulder, a burned spot on the back of 'is left paw..." He saw no signs of recognition in her eyes. _Unless she's good at hidin' it._ "His right footpaw lifted a bit higher than 'is left when 'e walked... an' 'e finished 'is sentences with a bit o' a hum."

The shopkeeper lightly tapped a claw on the counter as she pondered over his description.

"I can't think of anybeast like that, Mister..."

"Benwrath, miss. Tope Benwrath."

"I'm sorry, Mister _Benwrath_ ," she replied, her emphasis hinting at amusement. "I can't recall meeting that particular beast."

Not surprised, he reached into the purse at his hip and pulled out three silver coins. "I'll be in town for a bit..." He slid them across the counter. "I'd be mighty thankful t' anyone who might be able t' tell me where 'e is."

Making no move to take the coins, her brow furrowed. "And why might you be looking for him?"

"We've a bit o' catchin' up t' do," he answered, fairly certain his tone sounded pleasant. "Family matters an' all."

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Tope breathed in the cold, heavy Marshank air. Even with the evening chill to dull his nose, the settlement still smelled like too many beasts. He stepped out from under the patio of the apothecary and made his way toward the fortress itself. With the buildings inside the ruined fortress smashed so close together, everything from warmth to noise to beasts were trapped inside. That left little room for fresh air... or privacy. Tope hoped the latter would work in his favor so he could be on his way before the snow stranded him inside the place.

The stoat put his bowler hat back on his head and stepped purposefully down the muddy cobblestone street, passing by more wooden shops in various states of disrepair. At an intersection, he looked at the crude map he'd purchased upon entering Marshank, and took a left toward another medic who might know August's whereabouts.

Three blocks from his destination, Tope spotted a small figure shivering under the overhang of a bakery, a threadbare jacket wrapped around its shoulders and only a rag keeping the chill off its ears. A small rat's paw reached out toward him. Keenly aware of the twelve stones in his black bag, he thanked Fate for this opportunity and opened his purse.

As he fished out a couple of coins, he heard footsteps squelching in the mud grow steadily louder. Turning, he watched four weasels fan out to surround him, their attire just as shabby and ill-fitting as the rat's. Pulling sticks from their coats, they stared at Tope's purse before the tallest said, "How 'bout sharin' some o' yer shiny coins wif t' rest o' us!"

Tope heard the rat scramble away to hide behind the gang. Feeling a surge of warmth in his blood, he pulled his own wooden club from his belt. "If ye'd just asked nicely, I might o' done jus' that."

The weasels briefly considered his response before the leader scowled. "Take 'im down, mates!"

Tope brought his club up and blocked the first blow aimed at his head. Stepping in closer, he drove his right elbow up under the weasel's chin. A sickening crunch pierced the air before the beast crumpled to the ground. The other three froze as they watched blood pool on the stone under their comrade's muzzle, and the rat bolted up the street.

Paw tightening on the leather grip of his club, he pushed down the urge to rush at the others. _They ain't done nothin' yet..._ He waited. _Yet..._ He took two tentative steps up the street and away from the fight.

The gang moved to block him, but they kept their distance. He stepped again and the weasel closest to him pointed his stick like a sword at Tope's chest. When Tope continued, the bandit swung his stick low and quick toward Tope's knee, but the stoat's club struck the stick with enough force to knock it out of the weasel's paws. A low growl escaping his throat, he followed that blow with one to the knee. A loud crack and louder scream filled the evening air before Tope rounded on the two still standing.

Tope did not notice how quiet the rest of the street had become until he heard the sound of a small crowd heading quickly in their direction. He barely registered the noise until he saw the weasels hurl their sticks in the opposite direction. Their faces contorted into grimaces of fear before they threw themselves on the ground and began to weep loudly, obnoxiously.

The stoat turned and saw the runaway rat leading a band of armored beasts straight for him. At the command of their ferret captain, short spears, swords, and arrows pointed directly at Tope. _Fate is on my side,_ he reassured himself, pushing down the curses that reached for his tongue.

"Drop your weapon!" a tall ferret shouted over the screaming weasel on the ground.

Slowly and deliberately, he leaned his club against the side of the wall, not about to let it fall into the mud. "I don' know what that rat's been tellin' ye, but this wasn't started by me."

"Ye can see me moneybags on 'is belt!" the rat squealed, pointing at the black and white pouches.

The other two rushed pitiably toward the peacekeepers, throwing themselves at their mercy. "It's true! We tried t' get 'em back, but... but... 'e attacked us! Chancer an' 'Airless didn' stand a chance!"

Tope glared darkly at the thieves, his upper lip pulled back in a snarl. "Ain' a lick o' truth to that, ye ba-"

"You're coming with us," the ferret interrupted, "and we'll sort this out in private." The rest of the guards circled around the group, effectively blocking Tope and the gang from escaping. "Rendi, take the injured to a medic. Marshall, search the stoat for weapons."

A burly gray cat with oddly folded ears stepped toward Tope. Hoping to score points with the guard, he took a step back and stated, "I'll hand o'er anythin' weapon-like if ye give me a second."

The cat paused and lifted his spear to a ready position. "Slowly."

With a dozen curses flying through his head, he removed a small dagger from either boot and pulled out the mundane contents of his brown leather coat pockets.

"What's in the bags?"

He jingled his purse. "A bit o' travelin' fare." He shook the black and white pouches. "An' a couple bags of stones is all."

The cat scoffed. "What beast carries two bags of rocks?"

"One keepin' score."

"Of what?"

"There's a balance in every beast's life: light an' dark, good an' bad, right an'-"

"Give it up!" the cat snapped. He reached one paw forward toward the bags and Tope stepped back with a dangerous look in his eyes. The cat growled and reached again, claws closing around the neck of the white pouch. Tope grabbed the beast's wrist and tried to pry the bag out of the cat's grip while the other guards drew closer.

The peacekeeper heaved and the leather bag split open. Small gray stones fell to the ground and scattered into the mud and cobblestones all around them. Tope's jaw dropped as he watched the pieces of his world, the results of his every decision, the guideposts by which he lived scatter and vanish. As he looked down at the broken bag, the road and everyone in it turned red. He leaped forward. His paws closed around the cat's throat and he squeezed and squeezed and...

 _He saw his father placing the leather pouches on the mantle and start another lecture on the nature of good and evil._

His head exploded in pain. For a moment, Tope couldn't see the world around him, but he felt somebeast grab his paws and and heard the click of manacles close around his wrists. As he came to, he saw the spears leveled at his body.

His prisoner bound, the ferret from before ordered his soldiers to take Tope somewhere. "What? What'd you..?"

"There's a special place in the Crucible for killers like you."

"Wait." _What just happened?_ "But I didn'..."

Paws reached under Tope's shoulders and hoisted him up. Before they turned him away, he caught sigh of the feline peacekeeper's face, blood-filled eyes staring lifelessly toward the sky.

 _Yes,_ Fate whispered back, _you did._


	3. Traded His Life for A Glassful of Tears

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **He's Traded His Life for a Glassful of Tears**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _Ink, perhaps, is meant for paws far more capable than mine._

 _I lack the skill of the great poets, who weave truth and art with such ease. I am not worthy to be counted among even the scribes, for their dedication and fervor far exceeds my own. So it is with some measure of shame that, in spite of this, I turn to ink. I know no other way to remember their stories._

 _This is the story of the Fatherless. This is the story of the Lost. This is the story of the Searching. This is the story of the Brokenhearted._

 _But before their story, there was an Orphan. A sad, piteous beast who crossed my path for a time. I watched him live. I watched him survive. I watched him die._

 _His name was Bechtel._

 _~.~.~.~_

Bechtel awoke to a swaying world. Groaning wood and the thrumming deep filled his ears, while the air hung thick with the stench of moldy vegetation. Something prickled beneath him with every slight shift. When he moved to push himself up from the stinging floor, fire and pain ripped through his right wing.

A cry caught in his throat, burning to be let free. The bat refused to speak, to peel back the dark that clouded his eyes. Surely, this was merely a dream. Or a nightmare. Or the Spirits' twisted combination of the two. They always had a way of toying with him, even in his sleep.

So the cry died unspoken, and Bechtel waited for the numbing ignorance of sleep to wash over him once more. He waited for the embrace of his soft, feather-filled mattress, and the sweet wisps of the Boss' mint and honeysuckle tea to bid him awake. He waited to be where he belonged.

Sleep never came. His ears flicked at a constant _tic-toc_ thumping from above, and the muffled voices and shouts, and the hobbling footsteps that approached him, and—

"Oy!" snapped a harsh voice followed by a metallic clanging that roared in his ears.

Bechtel jerked upright. Too fast. The pain in his wing flared once more, and he could not stop the scream this time.

The echoes told him everything. The seasons-rusted bars that surrounded him, the sloped walls of wood that oozed drips of water, the rotted nettles and straw strewn between dilapidated crates, and the sneering rat staring right at him on the other side of the bars.

"Arr, ye ain't dead," the rat tutted, lowering his sword from striking the bars. "That be good."

Bechtel's breaths came quick and sharp as he tried not to move. The rat was not altogether terrifying, with salt-stricken fur and torn, simple clothing, but childhood stories of vermin filled the gaps in Bechtel's mind. Tales of hordes and horrors plaguing the land from the Wood to the coast.

"Weren't sure ye was gonna make it," the rat continued. "Ain't never operated on no birds …or whatever th' Gates ye are."

The echoes silenced, and the rat and room once more disappeared from Bechtel's vision. Frantically, he thought back to the prior day. The marketplace in Daskim, pitching the Boss' wares. Gurry the mole, pawning trinkets and swindling lies to unexpecting beasts. The mousewife who believed the mole.

Then, his anger, his rage, and the cobblestones and his wings streaked with so much red. He remembered how the mole shook in his grip. How the mousewife stared at him, judging eyes saying it all.

Bechtel winced and shook the memory from his head, hurriedly thinking of what followed. He remembered flying away. Far away, until only blue surrounded him. Then whistling objects cutting through the winds. A horrible pain in his wing. Falling. Blue turning black, then nothing.

Only one beast in the room could answer the questions that lingered in his mind. Even if they were a type known to butcher woodlanders should the mood strike them, if the darker tales were to be believed. Curiosity conquered caution. Bechtel opened his mouth to speak, but all that followed was a series of dry-throated coughs that sent him lurching forward.

" 'Ere," the rat said before something clattered to the floor next to Bechtel. " 'Ave yerself a drink. Yew been out fer a couple days."

Bechtel scraped the object - a bottle - into his grip, ignoring the throb of his wing as he pried the cork free and tipped the bottle over his lips. The foul, sickly-sweet liquid burned as soon as it struck his throat. Bechtel sputtered alcohol and spit, recovered, then tipped the bottle back again.

"Yarr-harr, drink up, laddie! It be good fer ya!"

Bechtel ignored the rat and the burning in his chest, savoring how the liquid stripped the crusty dryness from his throat. The bottle ran empty after only a few gulps, but it was enough.

"W-where am I?" Bechtel asked, flinching as the dour world appeared before him once more.

"So ye _kin_ talk. Cap'n'll like hearin' that." The rat nodded to himself. "Was afeared I wasted me talents on one o' them gorked beasts."

"Talents? Captain? What are you babbling abou—" Bechtel hissed as he moved to stand up, the pain in his wing striking him once more. For the first time, he listened to what the echoes told him of his wing. He felt a chill.

A hole, the size of a full-grown otter's fist, cut through the membrane of his wing. Spiderweb fissures crackled out to his limbs. Muddy ointment smeared the frayed edges, smelling of vinegar and rotten vegetables.

"What… what is this? What happened to me?"

The rat pulled a stool up and plopped himself down. "Well, let's start wiff one question at a time, aye? Yew, my liddle birdie, are aboard the _Lucky Locket,_ proud ship o' Captain Smoketail. Er… _former_ captain, afore he were shamefully swindled outta life. Tiltsnout be th' cap'n now."

"I don't _care,_ " Bechtel snarled. "Who did this to me?!"

"Couple o' beasts t' blame fer that 'un." The rat counted out his fingers. "Yew, fer flyin' o'erhead us. Hobby, fer thinkin' you was a gull. Mighty fine shot, that stoat be. An me, fer patchin' yew back together."

Bechtel gaped at the rat, and how he scratched at the fleas between his ears before grabbing up a second bottle and taking a deep swig. A sinking, burning horror boiled within the bat's chest, the hairs of his neck standing on-end.

"Now, as fer yer other questions—"

"Troglodyte!" Bechtel shouted as loud as his raw voice would allow. "Simpleton! L-look at this! Look at what you've _done_ to me!" He held out his wing, ignoring the stab of pain. "A blindfolded dibbun with a kitchen knife could have done a better job!"

The rat stood up, scowling. "If it weren't fer me, ye wouldn' even 'ave that curtain o' a paw!"

Bechtel snarled at the rat. "Surely that would have been better than this travesty! Who knows what further damage you've done?"

The rat opened his mouth to reply, but another voice spoke up, "He's got some fight in him, does he, Rigtail?"

Bechtel heard footsteps follow the voice. Down a stairway in the back of the room came a fox dressed in a mostly-unspoiled red longcoat. A weathered tricorn perched atop his head, tilted up where it didn't quite fit over one of his ears.

"Aye… that he does, Cap'n," the rat replied, ducking his head as the fox passed.

"Good. I like that in a beast." The fox approached the bars, then doffed his hat as he bowed before Bechtel. "I do 'pologize for my associate's behavior. Ya must understand, our resources are a bit thin out here on th' seas."

Bechtel regarded the fox captain-Tiltsnout, he recalled. His brow twitched with uncertainty. Vermin or not, the fox did seem a _reasonable_ sort, at the very least. The heat in his chest dwindling, Bechtel stood up straighter before he spoke, "Then you'll understand my frustration with my arrangements. I didn't expect to wake up on a ship, locked in a cage, with a hole in my wing."

Tiltsnout clapped his paws together. "Oh no, I understand completely. A troublin' situation indeed. Let me make it up to ya, Mr…?"

"…Bechtel. My name is Bechtel."

Tiltsnout's smile widened, though the ways his fangs glistened unnerved Bechtel. "Marvelous. What brings ya this far out ta sea, Bechtel?"

Bechtel spoke before the memories returned, "Traveling."

Tiltsnout nodded. "Visitin' family, is it?"

"No… not really."

"Ahh, I know what ya are, then. A free spirit. No beast ta hold you back or care 'bout where you're goin'?"

Bechtel scratched at the collar of his shirt. "You could say that."

Tiltsnout snapped his fingers. "Fetch me Mr. Bechtel's key, Rigtail."

Bechtel's beady eyes widened as the rat scampered off. "You… you mean I'm not a prisoner?"

"Mr. Bechtel, do I look like th' kinda beast ta keep free spirits like you locked up in a cage?" Tiltsnout held his paws amicably to his sides.

Bechtel gaped, sputtered, then straightened up further. "N-no sir! In fact, you look like just the proper kind of gentlebeast I was hoping to meet!" He managed a smile and stepped forward. "Would it be too much trouble to ask when you'll next be reaching port?"

"Some time tomorrow, if our headings hold."

Bechtel's smile widened. Perhaps this wasn't as bad a situation as he feared. It hadn't been his plan, but he was surely far enough away from Daskim by now. Far enough for a fresh start. Yes. He could work with this. Perhaps even use the injury to his wing to drum up pity from the local beasts before finding a new beast to call "Boss."

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, Captain Tiltsnout," Bechtel said.

The tottering footsteps of Rigtail returned, and a moment later, the door to the cage swung upon with a rusty moan.

"You really are a kind, honorable sort of fellow, Captain," Bechtel said, limping his way outside of the cage. "Truly, should there ever be blessings upon beasts, may they be—"

"Hold 'im still, Rigtail."

Bechtel had only time to flinch before the paw latched around his shirt and shoved him to the floor. Bechtel inhaled to shout when he felt cold metal tickle his throat.

"I'm glad we had this chat, Mr. Bechtel. Really, I am," Tiltsnout said somewhere to his side. Bechtel tried to send out a sound, but the steel against his neck kept him silent and blind.

"Beasts like me, we gotta be careful who we bother with," Tiltsnout continued, followed by the clattering of chains. "Got roped in with the daughter of a general once, and that didn't end well for anyone, let me tell you."

Bechtel felt something wrap around his ankle—cold like the knife, but thicker. Dull and heavy.

"But you, you're the perfect catch. An exotic beast wanderin' th' world, without anyone who'd care or miss ya. Ya know how much you're gonna fetch me?" Tiltsnout whistled as another heavy bit of metal clacked around Bechtel's remaining ankle.

Bechtel stared blankly ahead, numbed by the fox's words. It wasn't the confirmation of his fate that justified the fear that even now roiled within him. Slavers wasn't a surprising turn of events. After countless stories in his youth, hearing tell of vermin slavers, he scolded himself for not seeing it sooner. No, it wasn't that.

It was that the fox told the truth. No one would miss him. No one would come searching for him. He was, for the first time, truly and utterly alone.

"Take 'im up and put 'im with th' others, Rigtail. And fix that broken anchor we've got ta his chains. Won't do me any good ta have our guest flyin' off on me, now would it?"

The cold pulled away from his neck and Bechtel felt himself hoisted onto his feet.

"Enjoy your time aboard th' _Lucky Locket,_ Mr. Bechtel."

~.~.~.~

The sponge hit the deck with a wet slap. Frigid, brown water oozed from mildew-covered pores as the knobby, sodden excuse for a mop swept flecks of snow and silt alike. He suppressed a shiver as the winter air brushed over him, refreshing the sting of the lashes still fresh upon his back. It kept his strokes strong, though only enough to avoid attention.

He distracted himself from the chill by humming to the cadence of his strokes - a soft, old song, carried as much by memory as melody. Though he knew them well, he gave no effort at the words. It wasn't the place for them, and they would only dredge up further memories. Instead, he relied upon the wordless rhythm to reveal the world around him.

Two scores of pirates walked atop the deck of the long, slender ship. Some busied themselves with navigational calculations and keeping the massive sails bannering above from freezing. Most, however, focused their attention on harassing the other slaves-sorry, chained creatures who worked with rehearsed motions learned long ago, faces set and hardened against the rain of shouts and threats leveled at them. Tiltsnout's constant admonitions of his "profits" being dependent upon healthy beasts stayed the slavemaster's ire, but it did not keep the whip from cracking. The newer slaves always cried out. The rest said nothing.

Beyond the ship lay the pulsing swell of an ocean that never ended. The waters were vague and undefined even to his echoes, their constant movement preventing Bechtel from fully grasping their form. He'd clacked his tongue loudly once to see if perhaps there was land to be found nearby-some distant promise of hope he could hold onto. For miles, it was nothing but the shifting, nebulous waves. So, after some time, he'd focused his attention elsewhere.

Bechtel recalled his time under one of his former Bosses. One of the first, in fact—a shaggy-furred, elderly squirrel named Lorra Hearthpaw. Under her tutelage and employ, he learned how to properly water a garden, how to cook bread just to that perfect, golden-brown color, and how to pick the door locks of Lorra's nosy neighbors when they were gone to town.

 _"So long as no one suspects you, you're not doin' anythin' wrong!"_ he remembered the old crone saying with a toothless grin. He'd needed the money - and the company - so he listened to her rambling and learned her ways. And here it was that he found his injury a blessing-irony that no doubt tickled the Spirits. No beast regarded his slumped posture with any suspicion, nor the way he let his wing droop down by his feet. Not even the dark looks cast his way took note of how close he kept his claw to his shackles' locks. And when they looked away, he worked.

He worked his clawtip inside the rusty shaft of the lock, paying close attention to what his soft melody told him of its mechanisms. The latches were nothing like the simple cottage doors Lorra had him break into, and there were four times as many internal components, but as the squirrel had also told him, _"Go with the basics, lad, and work your way from there. Everythin' starts at a beginning."_

Bechtel tried several configurations, twisting and prodding his claw this way and that, but to no avail. Every beginning led to the same, hopeless end. When the echoes warned him of a pirate glancing his way, he quickly removed his claw from the lock and focused his attention back upon the sponge. When the moment passed, he resumed his work, though with sickening certainty he realized it would take much trial, error, and luck to figure out the correct combination.

Bechtel paused, his song catching sight of something else happening. On the opposite end of the ship, a stoat corsair beat his fists upon the skull of a whimpering mousemaid. This was no disciplinary whipping to spur further work. Bechtel could not hear what the stoat shouted, but it didn't matter. He saw it all. Though the two-dozen other chained beasts strewn across the deck averted their gaze, Bechtel saw every blow, every tear that escaped eyes screwed shut, every plea for mercy that didn't need sound to be heard.

Bechtel scraped the sponge down hard enough to dig his claw through it and into the wood grain beneath. The song turned bitter in his throat, and he stopped scrubbing. Every limb tensed when he saw the stoat backhand the mousemaid, silencing her cries as she struck the deck. She did not rise against the villain, and Bechtel knew that she would not. She would cower upon that floor, bearing the pain. If consoled afterwards, she would shrug her shoulders, say she deserved it, and put upon her face a broken smile that drooped more and more each day, until she could no longer be recognized by those who loved her. Until someone stopped the pain for her.

 _She isn't Him,_ Bechtel told himself, wiping away the face that had replaced hers in his mind. _Stay focused. There are too many. There's nothing you can do._

Bechtel drew a sharp breath through his teeth and went to resume his work on the lock when he noticed a beast approaching him. Bechtel tensed when the echoes told him of the beast's lanky figure, narrowed muzzle, and sharp eyes. This was no woodlander-it was a weasel. Confusion colored his concern, however, when he heard the tell-tale jangle of a slave's chains accompanying the beast's every step.

He rubbed the sponge in a steady rhythm as the weasel dumped himself down beside Bechtel.

"Hello there," the weasel chirped across steepled fingers. "You're that bat they shot down three days ago, aren't you?"

Bechtel didn't reply, though his soft humming led him to scrutinize the vermin. The beast seemed at once a walking paradox. He carried himself with the same stiff posture Bechtel had seen in the richer beasts parading through Daskim, complete with the fine, frock coat dappled with intricate stitchwork and buttons. The outfit and beast alike had seen better days, however. Rips and tears covered the coat, whole lines of stitching and buttons were missing, and the heavy lines pulled at the weasel's eyes.

It didn't stop the weasel from smiling broadly-an expression that looked well at home upon his face.

"Oh, don't bother denying it. Not many bats to find around here, if you haven't noticed."

A pair of footsteps approached the two of them—a ferret pirate, twiddling his fingers together. "Ey, err, Ander mate, I don't fink yer surposed ter be over 'ere. Ain'tcha got work on th' ballast ter do?"

The weasel glowered at the ferret. "Cram it, Greenfoam, unless you want your tail back in the firepit tonight. I've done my work—go bother a beast who deserves it."

The ferret stammered out a reply and the weasel made a motion to get up. Stumbling off, the ferret quickly disappeared to the other side of the deck. The grin returned to Ander's face.

"See, it's all in who you know here. Greenfoam over there has the spine of a twig and the courage of a tulip." He pointed. "That gray fox, Hastus, on the other paw? Don't rub his fur the wrong way if you like keeping your fingers."

"What do you want?" Bechtel muttered through clenched teeth.

Ander's grin doubled. "Oh good, you _do_ talk. I once spent an afternoon talking to a mute. Boring conversation." The weasel swiveled himself around and reclined his head back against the deck. "See, I was worried you were just another dullard like the rest of them, but something told me: _'Ander, you charming rapscallion, there's something different about that one. Go grace him with your presence.'_ And here we are."

"How kind of you."

"Yes, I _am_ very kind, aren't I? I'm sure I'll think of a way for you to repay my kindness, but I'll be the better beast and let my good graces suffice for now. After all, this must be so terribly confusing to you. And frightening, what with the talk of our destination."

Bechtel paused his scrubbing, the corner of his eye twitching.

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Ander leaned in closer. "We're going to a grand stadium. Something called 'The Crucible.' Some say it's full of beasts who feast on each others' blood. Others say you'll be paraded out onto a stage to be used as target practice."

Bechtel stopped singing. He shivered, fur standing on end, though whether from the wind or the weasel's words, he didn't know.

Ander reclined back once more. "Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. We should start with introductions. I'm sure my name precedes me, but what do I call you? Flappers? Hummingbird? Or do we keep it simple with 'Mr. Bat'? "

Bechtel scowled. "My name is—"

"You know, this sun is dreadful for my composure. Here, you can start thanking me by making use of that wing of yours."

The weasel reached and stretched Bechtel's injured wing out above him. Pain rippled through Bechtel's body and he steadied himself with his free wing. He tried to pull from the weasel's grasp, but Ander held firm.

"Ugh! You call this moth-bitten sham a wing?" Ander adjusted the wing several times, squinting against the glare of sunlight that poured through the hole. "It's a simply terrible shade. Do you know you have a hole in this?"

"I noticed," Bechtel snarled. "You're hurting me, so if you'd be so _kind_ as to give me my wing back…"

The weasel did not let go, and his grin disappeared.

"Word of advice, friend? Try not to be so obvious."

Bechtel frowned. "I don't know what you're t—"

"You know, I think our friends the pirates would just _love_ to hear how you've been trying to pick your lock. And if you thought what they did to that mouse was bad…" Ander whistled.

Bechtel failed to keep the surprise from registering on his face. How the weasel managed to discover his plan in the first place escaped him. "Please don't," he whispered. "I'm just trying to—"

"Ssh-sh-sh." The weasel pressed a claw against Bechtel's mouth. "We'll keep this our little secret for now, all right? Just remember how wonderfully kind and benevolent I was, especially if the rumors of this Crucible are even half true." The grin returned, and Ander patted Bechtel on the shoulder. "Congratulations. You now owe me your life, Mr. Bat."

Ander released the wing and pushed himself back up. "I think this was a worthwhile conversation, don't you? It's good to have friends in places like this, isn't it?"

Bechtel glared as the weasel swaggered his way back across the deck, the chains jangling with his every step. He clicked his tongue and directed his glare to the chains wound about his ankles, and the anchor-weight holding him firm to the deck.

The weasel was right about one thing. If the pirates truly were delivering him to this "Crucible," he would have to escape before they even arrived. And if Tiltsnout was to be believed, he only had a day to do it.

He checked thrice to be certain no beast watched, then jabbed his claw once more into the lock.

~.~.~.~

Dried blood caked his claw. Every twist sent a whimper bubbling out from Bechtel. The louder sobs stirred the sleeping beasts littering the black hold, forcing the bat to slump down and wait until the stirring ceased once more. Each time, the struggle not to succumb to pull that beckoned him sleep grew greater and greater.

Resuming his work once more, Bechtel grit his teeth to keep them from chattering and maneuvered his shivering wingtip back into the lock. The hold did nothing to keep the evening's bite from seeping through him and into his bones, and only the score of sleeping beasts around him provided any warmth. And so he hummed weakly to the thrum of the ocean deep outside. No song or melody, just an accompanying purr to swim within the deep.

The beasts surrounding him remained unaware as he slowly, carefully worked upon the lock, though Bechtel checked the far corner of the room often. The weasel slept with the room's sole blanket and pillow, both raggedy, patchwork messes likely procured by further manipulations and trickery. Ander's chest rose and fell in a rhythm that couldn't have been faked, but even that failed to give Bechtel complete assurance.

Ignoring the weasel and his ill-gotten treasures, Bechtel turned back to the lock. He was close to finding the correct combination. He knew it. He choked against a cry as a latch of metal scraped into the raw of his quick once more. Swallowing the cry defiantly, he pushed, twisted, leveraging the mechanics within as he waited for the telltale click to signal the promise of freedom. None came, and the pain grew too much to bear.

Ripping his claw free, he sputtered out a wracked growl that had long boiled within his chest as he sucked at the blood dripping from his claw.

 _You're going to die here._

He fought against the tears and shudders that wracked his body. The slaves shuffled around him, but he couldn't bring himself to pretend any longer.

 _Oh, let them look. Let them see me. Let them mock and hate as they stare._

Amid the whirl of pain and fatigue in his mind, he saw it again. Daskim. The cobblestone roads. The mole and the red. Bechtel did not shake the memories from him mind this time. He studied the face of Gurry, greed and arrogance veiled under velvet. The drip of blood from his claw played to the motion of the mole striking the ground. Again. Again. And again. And when the mousewife stared at him this time, he stared back.

 _This is his fault._ Bechtel's wings tensed, the fur across his body prickling. _You should be thanking me! He deserved it, and me? Look at me! This is all the fault of that Spirits-cursed mole! It's always their fault!_

The image of the mouse said nothing to the roar in his mind, and so he shoved her into the dark of his thoughts. Snorting his breaths out hard, Bechtel jabbed his claw into the lock once more. The echoes warned him of the beasts waking all around him. He ignored them. He ignored the pain. He ignored the stares.

He slid his claw between several latches, swiveled them up, spun a quarter circle as Lorra had taught him, and—

 _Click._

Bechtel froze. The pressure around his ankle lessened. He sent a probing claw down to touch the lock. He gasped when he felt it sway further open.

 _I'm going to live. I'm going to—_

 _Clack._

Bechtel spun his head to where the hold's door creaked open on the whine of a rusty hinge. Even with his blighted eyes, Bechtel squinted against the flood of light that poured in around the silhouette of another beast.

"Up on yar paws, ya buckets a' bilge!" hollered the gray fox, Hastus. "Onta the deck now, if'n ya care ta see daylight e'er again!"

The room came alive with a chatter of chains scuttling across the floor. Bechtel hefted the anchor weight into his good wing as he fell into step behind the rest of the slaves. He shuffled closely behind an otter, hoping the woodlander's larger size would distract any attention from the loose lock around his foot.

He winced as he climbed onto the deck and waited for the white of his vision to fade once more to a blur. The sea-flecked air no longer bit at him, though. Its cold drifted over and under his wings, beckoning him to the sky once more as a friend.

 _Soon. One more lock, and I'll be free._

Bechtel clicked his tongue twice to gather his bearings. The line of slaves headed to the starboard of the ship where a gangway lowered onto a wooden pier. Beyond the pier lay a sprawling harbor, and an even larger city beyond which tapered into plains and swamps. However, it was the beasts on-board the _Lucky Locket_ speaking with Captain Tiltsnout that drew Bechtel's attention.

"…a strappin' lad like this one?" Tiltsnout tapped his paw against the shoulder of a mouse. "Why, he must fetch at least—"

"Four silver, and no more," said a squirrel dressed in a sharply-fitting outfit. "You're lucky I'm willing to pay that much. Mice don't last long, but they have their place, and Cain's running low." She scribbled something onto her tablet, then gestured with her charcoal stick towards the mouse.

A rat, dressed in the same vest the squirrel wore, grabbed the mouse and led him down the bridge to the harbor below, where dozens more of the vest-wearing beasts waited.

 _"Some say it's full of beasts who feast on each others' blood. Others say you'll be paraded out onto a stage to be used as target practice."_ Suddenly, Bechtel could believe the stories. Woodlanders and vermin working together was enough to make it clear this place was unnatural and horrific.

And the transfer of the slaves was happening in front of his eyes.

Bechtel ignored Tiltsnout and the squirrel's haggling over a vole as he bent and set his weight to the side. He acted as if to massage his wing for a moment, humming softly to himself before moving his claw to the second lock around his ankle.

His breathing quickened as he worked. He reminded himself of the proper steps, just the same as the last lock. _Second and fifth, up and over, twist a quarter-circle, and…_

He felt a paw grip his shoulder.

"You know, Mr. Bat." Bechtel stiffened at the familiar, silken tone. "I don't think you really appreciate the gift of my friendship. Maybe I wasn't clear, but here's how it's going to work—"

 _Click._

Bechtel spun and smashed a limb into Ander's face. The weasel struck the ground as the bat shook the locks from his feet. Neither the chains nor the anchor holding him down, he dashed across the deck, and for three seconds, no one reacted. Then, "Stop 'im!"

The deck exploded into action by the time Bechtel reached the edge of the ship. The echoes shouted at him of the bows being drawn and the arrows readied, and of the distance across the water to the section of the dock devoid of the vested beasts. Bechtel grit his teeth, spread his wings, and launched himself out.

The pain struck immediately, the hole in his wing alight with fire as the wind howled through it. He spun sharply to the side and heard the whistle of an arrow pass overhead.

"Don't shoot 'im, ya idiot!" he heard Tiltsnout shout. "He's worth a lot ta me!"

Bechtel forced his injured wing to flap harder to compensate for the lack of lift. His entire body screamed in pain with every wingbeat. The water below and the dock ahead kept him moving, bearing every shock coursing through his body.

 _Keep going. You_ have _to keep going._

He stopped feeling anything but the fire. Saw speckles dot his blighted eyes. The pressure in his head, about to explode.

The water disappeared beneath him and Bechtel crashed onto the dock.

Fire raged. Lungfuls of cold air, burning in his chest. The unending motion from a world already stopped.

 _Get up._

Shouts from the ship. Footsteps reverberating in the woodgrain beneath him.

 _Get up!_

Movement. Pushing himself up from the ground, against the fire, against the pain.

 _Now! Get up!_

Bechtel ran.

Only the echoes and a will far gone from his control guided him. The winding alleyways of the city grew thick around him, thicker with every step. Some beasts stared at him as he ran. Everything burned too much for him to care.

The alleyways widened. A road leading further into the city. More beasts staring. Bechtel asked the echoes where another alley was, where he could run to. They told him of one ahead, if he just kept moving.

Bechtel ran.

Something slammed into his side.

A weight on top of him. Pain. Fire. Voices, drifting in and out.

"…over here! I've got…"

Footsteps approaching.

 _No. No, get up and run! Please!_

Footsteps nearing, voices louder. The pressure and pain turning his sight black. The echoes stopped speaking to him.

 _Please… I didn't mean for this to happen._

The world vanished into the black.


	4. Need Money

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Need Money**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

Snowfall.

In every direction Laurence looked there was the enveloping white, raining down from above.

It had been like this ever since the caravan left from Hastings Hall four days prior.

 _This weather. This is insane._ What surprised the otter more than anything else about this kind of weather, was how bitterly could it could be. Chilled, right down to the bones. No matter how many layers of clothing he wore the feeling just would not go away. The wind whistled relentlessly in his ears.

"Don't forget t' shake your shoulders every now and again!" muttered a hoarse voice. It was his friend Bertram. "Trust me, ye don't want to get buried in a heap o' snow out here."

"Are we almost there? I don't think I can take much more of this Fates-forsaken weather!" Laurence adjusted the balaclava obscuring his face as another wave of cold belted him. He was reduced to breathing through the mouth since all the mucus inside his nose had turned solid. _Can't believe we all haven't frozen to death._

"Not far now. Mayhaps another three miles to go."

The otter tried to complain at the undesirable answer Bertram had given, but he couldn't find his voice. Instead he was reduced to another coughing fit.

"Give your voice a rest, comrade. Hard enough to speak over this howlin' wind."

 _Speak for yourself. Your voice sounds ready to give out._ Where Laurence was originally from, it never got this bad. The worst storm he'd ever seen in his homeland finished only five inches of snow high. For only two months out of the year it would persist, before warmer weather returned.

Laurence Copeland managed to keep weary eyes fixed on the cart inching along in front of him. He and a couple other able-bodied mercenaries had volunteered to march behind it, each of them armed. It wasn't often that these caravans would make it from one city to another in one piece without armed guards. As unpleasant as guard duty was, anything was better than having the misfortune of being chosen to pull the cart to its destination.

Ten more minutes drifted by, before the faint sound of a horn came from the front of the caravan. "Well what d'ye know? One of the scouts must have caught a glimpse o' the city," said Bertram.

Laurence squinted his eyes, and sure enough he could see a pair of tiny bright dots through the endless white before him. The wall grew in size with every unified step taken in the right direction. Everybeast in the caravan felt a renewed vigor at the sight of their destination and quickened their marching pace. _Thank the Fates._

"Looks like I was wrong for once... Marshank, in all of its glory!" The town was completely obscured by a collapsing stone wall that looked to be very old- with a few holes in the framework that had been patched over again with cloth or planks of wood.

The imposing wall gate creaked wide open when the caravan drew near. Once each of the newcomers made it inside the sentries on the parapet furiously turned a crank, and the gate closed shut.

"For the record, I'm glad you were wrong Bertram," said Laurence after a sigh of relief. The cold might have taken a lot out of him, but it would not rid him of his good humor. He gladly ripped off the balaclava and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

One of the first things Laurence really noticed about the settlement was the scattered clusters of structures. Apothecaries, shops and the like were built right beside each other. Then a few dozen yards apart, would be another structure, like a watchtower. Beyond that, a collective of shoddy tents where villagers lived.

Interestingly enough, what connected all the official structures together were a series of towlines. Laurence figured it was probably a great way to prevent any beast wandering out late at night from getting lost in the harsh wintry darkness.

Not many creatures looked to be out this late in the day, with the sun having set only minutes prior to their arrival. The leader of the caravan, a middle aged hare named Gervaise, jumped off the cart and landed in a drift of snow. "Bertram! Start a roll call... Well? Hop to it, mate!"

At the urging of his employer the mouse began rapidly counting each creature huddled together beside the caravan.

"I'm counting seventeen creatures present, Mister Gervaise," announced Bertram after double checking his numbers. "Looks like we lost pore ole Cuffy somewhere out there."

 _We lost somebeast out there?_ _Not on my watch._ Laurence turned toward the imposing gate.

"Fates help him. I can only imagine what he must be experiencing. With that said, only one creature lost out on the trail isn't bad. Not bad at all."

Laurence stepped twice, then stopped. He bit his lip thoughtfully. _If he'd seen the city lights, Cuffy the old mouse would have shown up by now._

"Shouldn't we send somebeast out there? To go and help him?" asked a stuttering, young voice. Laurence recognized it as the unseasoned squirrel that had accompanied them. "Cuffy won't last very long on his own."

Laurence's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until the sinew around his knuckles hurt. _That means he must be at least four miles out._

He heard the stomp of the hare's paw against the snow. "Are you volunteering to go an' fetch him? Are you? Hmm? I didn't think so. Nay, I shall not lose another creature to this accursed weather!"

"B-but, what if-"

"No." All eyes turned back to Laurence as trudged back towards the group, face fixed in a scowl. "He's right. As much as I hate to admit it, we've already lost him."

"If we just let him die, then we're just as guilty in causing his death." said another woodlander, this one a hedgehog.

Laurence responded first with a glare. "If you went back out there, you would only seek to give winter another corpse. You saw how bad that storm was. It will only get worse once the sun sets."

The hedgehog's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as a grim silence settled over the group.

"Nothing to do for it but move on," Laurence said, pushing past the rest of the caravan and walking closer toward the nearest city watch brazier.

His paw remained tight around his sword. Years of warring had taught him many hard truths. When self-preservation trumped the good of others was just one of them. Laurence stood beside the nearest brazier and warmed his freezing joints by the roaring fire as he reflected on the events unfolded.

No, he did not plan on dying today. Or anytime soon. He had unfinished business back home.

~.~.~.~

For his valiant efforts in escorting the caravan to its destination, Laurence was paid in full: two measly silver coins. It had taken every ounce of the otter's self-control to not throw the coins into that cheap jerk's pretentious face. Originally the job had promised five silver coins.

When confronted about the broken promise, the hare tried to explain that it was in Cuffy's contract that should a life be lost on the road, some of the proceeds would go to his family. It was in Laurence's contract too. So in the end, everybeast received a small pay cut. Not just Laurence.

Laurence groped at the pair of silver coins jingling within his coat pocket, whiskers twitching once more at his predicament. He turned down a pathway into one of the nicer districts of Marshank, searching for signage leading him to Arbington.

He'd parted ways with the mercenaries and his friend Bertram when they opted to stay at a rickshaw inn on the far outskirts of the city. If he was going to sleep for the first time in a new town, it would be in a place with some real class. He was going to live a little.

Upon finding a wooden placard hanging from the side of a multi-tiered building - the words "Arbington" intricately carved upon its face - the young mercenary marched forward to the inn that Betram had recommended to him. Laurence flashed a smile at a pretty female mouse darting past him. She did not return the friendly gesture.

Upon reaching the door, Laurence took a moment to compose himself. He turned the doorknob and entered the inn. The interior of Arbington definitely did not disappoint. The stairwell was made from sculpted marble, stairs themselves were stone.

There was almost nobeast in sight. Just a drunken mouse pouting in the corner of the room with a half-empty flask, and the maiden otter behind the counter, readily polishing a flask of her own. Once Laurence reached the counter, he placed himself in a leisurely pose.

"So you own this old place, lass? Nice. Good to see a fellow otter around these parts doing well."

"Do you really expect the owner of this place to be standing behind the counter?" Laurence noticed the younger female had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She put the mug away and spoke in a much less condescending tone. "I'm sorry. What can I help you with, my lord?"

"I would like your finest available room," Laurence placed one of the silver coins on the table. Then he held the other out toward the maiden, "And how much to drink can a creature like me get around here for one silver?"

"Two bottles of your choice. Want me to have them sent to your room?"

"Aye. Firefleck Mead, if you have it. Mulberry Wine if you don't." Laurence handed her the last two coins in his possession.

"I hope you enjoy your stay, master...?"

"You can just call me Laurence. Laurence Copeland," said the mercenary with a wink.

The walk to the bedroom was short and lonely. Inside the chambers there were silk curtains and a cozy-looking bed; the best part of the entire suite was a lovely view facing in the direction of the ruined fortress. He leaned out against the railing and could see torches illuminating the ancient place. New buildings had been constructed into the walls, and extensions added to the spiraling towers. Laurence made a mental note to check the place out before leaving the settlement.

The otter hung his oversized jacket on the bedpost, then took off the dark gray scarf around his neck. Following this he unbuckled his belt and with it the family sword inside its scabbard.

After completely settling in, Laurence eyed the bottle of Firefleck. Using his claws, he gently removed the wrapping protecting the cork and popped it open. He took in the smell and the memories of his home life came swarming back to him.

Father, still in one whole piece and standing tall. Little brother childishly playing games in with his army of friends. Back then Laurence himself had not a care in the world, before he had a mountain of responsibilities. Before the great war had changed everything. The peaceful times which had taken place so long ago.

No. He could not think about home anymore. It would only make him cry again. He carefully placed it back into his pack. The otter resolved to save the Firefleck for a very special occasion. Right now, he would enjoy Mulberry.

The rest of that night would end up mostly forgotten by the otter in the following morning.

~.~.~.~

Laurence awoke with the feeling of his brain sloshing inside his skull. It was unpleasant, but not enough to warrant any real concern. Sluggishly he clothed himself again. _Shouldn't have drank so much last night._ He waited a moment sitting on the edge of his bed, letting himself wake up before standing to his footpaws.

 _I'm broke again._ There was no way around it now. Laurence would need to find a job here in Marshank. Like everywhere else in the world food and water here was surely not going to be free. He looped the belt around his waist and stared at the sword propped against his bedside. _I'll come back for it later._

To his surprise, he encountered the same female otter from last night behind the front counter again... albeit more tired and disheveled than before. After taking a moment to make sure jacket collar was on right, and his headfur was neat, Laurence approached the counter with a spring in his step.

"Fancy seeing you again." Her feminine voice was far too loud for this early in the morning, but he did not mention it. "Didn't think you would be getting up this early."

"I was raised to sleep early, wake early as a young cub. I guess old habits truly die hard. Ye seem like a smart creature, where could I go to find a job around these parts?"

She looked up toward the ceiling and her snout twitched incessantly. "Hmm. I know there is a news bulletin a few streets downtown from here. It also doubles as a place where creatures will post info about odd jobs they need done..."

"Excellent, that's exactly what I am looking for! Could you show me where this bulletin is?" Laurence leaned a little closer than before, eagerly awaiting a response.

"Err... I don't know about that. It's kind of in a dangerous part of town. But I could always write directions down for you to follow!" She opened up the guest registry and turned it toward an empty page. She swiftly wrote down the directions, then tore it out from the old book.

Before she finished, Laurence hastily added, "You should probably write your name down... and the name of this place on there. Um, just in case I... you know, forget where I got this from."

With a knowing smile, the worker added both the name of Arbington Inn and her name. Once she was finished, she delicately tore the page from the ancient book and handed it to the mercenary. "I hope you enjoyed your stay here, master...?"

"Laurence! I'll be sure to pay ye another visit before I leave. That's a promise!" He winked at her again and headed toward the door without another word. _How did she forget my name already?_

Her voice followed after him, "I would certainly hope so! You still need to check out of your room!"

The mercenary, who was already halfway out the door, was too embarrassed at the honest mistake to answer right away. So in the end he simply acted as though he didn't hear the comment.

Outside it was bright and chilly. Many more creatures were out and about today. The majority were vermin types: weasels, ferrets, foxes, rats. But if Laurence squinted his eyes and looked across the small crowds he could see a pair of hedgehog vendors peddling their wares.

Laurence looked down at the paper and read the otter's name. Wander. A beautiful name for a lovely lady. _She likes me. She certainly does._ The way she smiled as she traced her name on the paper was a sure tell, figured Laurence. _Ah, well. First things first._

The otter's breath visibly preceded him while he traipsed in the direction the instructions said to go. The paper was leading him back toward the crumbling wall defenses on the west side, away from the nicer districts in town and in a more downtrodden area. Here on the ground in a particularly narrow alleyway between two shanties, was a small and ominous bloodstain that had been partially scrubbed away.

It was around this point that Laurence began to wonder if it was going to be worth it to head back to the Arbington and getting his sword from the foyer. _What, and make an idiot of myself in front of Wander?_ No, he would rather chance it.

Another minute was spent walking through a narrow alleyway. The bulletin was finally in sight. Only a moment after the otter crossing through the exit of the alleyway, a sound made him glance over his shoulder.

Blocking the exit was a pair of weasels in threadbare jackets. Coming from another direction was a small rat with beady eyes. Laurence knew exactly what was about to happen, but since the newcomers had yet to directly threaten him, the otter decided to keep it light hearted. "Hello, lads! Here to help a poor fellow find his way around town?"

"Just give us all the moneys on ya, and we'll letcha walk away in peace!" the rat pulled a rounded club from out of his frock coat and brandished it.

"You three are out of luck... Just so happens I ran out of all my money last night. In fact, I was headed to that bulletin over there to find a job. So let me advise you that you'd be better off on trying your luck elsewhere." To magnify the statement, Laurence emptied all of the pockets in his avant long coat. Only a carved stone and lint toppled to the ground.

"Do ya really expect us t' believe that? We saw where ya came from- the Arbington is da nicest inn on this side o' town!"

The otter audibly sighed and began cracking his knuckles. He could tell that these thugs just weren't getting the point. He turned back to the rat. "Look here. I'm going to give ye all one more chance to leave: turn around and go home or I will be knockin' ye flat on yore backs."

Out of the corner of Laurence's eye he caught sudden movement. He jumped back in time and avoided a devastating blow from the club-wielding weasel. The attacker lost his balance from the hefty swing and fell to the stone floor.

Before the weasel got back to his feet, Laurence kicked him hard in the side of their chest. The enemy recoiled in pain while the otter snatched up the club and brought it up to deflect a blow from the second weasel. Once he saw an opening Laurence smacked the enemy's claws. He gave them a shove to the ground as they tenderly held the injured paw.

Not forgetting about the rat, the mercenary gave a quick look behind and saw that they were making a run for it. Without a moment to waste, Laurence lined up his shot and hurled the club. The weapon banged the back of the rat's leg and they fell.

Turning his attention to the second weasel, the otter brought the full force of his leg down onto the weasel's exposed knee. He was rewarded with an awful crunching sound and a bloodcurdling scream. Laurence strolled over to where the rat laid on the ground and flipped them over. The otter received a nasty shock when a tiny kitchen knife buried itself into the skin just above his footpaw. He gave a strained grunt before falling to one knee.

The rat tried to pick himself back up but Laurence gave one solid punch and the victim did not rise again. Laurence was in the process of digging out the knife when he noticed the first weasel was slowly coming back to their footpaws.

"Stay on the ground, mate. If ye know what's good for ye." said Laurence with a growl. To the otter's anticipation the weasel did not respond and blindly rushed at him once again. Laurence pulled the knife out just in time and he allowed the weasel to run right into it. The enemy fell and this time they did not get up again.

Laurence turned to flee the area but a voice from behind him spoke, "That. Was. Amazing."

The witness was a shrew dressed in a dark blue tunic with a matching colored cap. Their mouth was agape with total surprise at the unfolding events. In their right paw was a spear. Laurence had a sinking feeling in his gut that he was an executor in this marsh city.

Before they had a chance to speak again, Laurence quickly stammered out a reply, "They rushed at me first, mate. I'm not the type to go around pickin' fights..."

"What is your name? I must know your name!" interrupted the giddy shrew. Laurence was perplexed at the newcomer's excitable behavior but he humored him.

"Laurence Copeland. I'm not from around these parts, so I apologize if I broke any of your city's laws. But let the record show that they attacked firs-"

"You can cool it with the apologies, I'm not telling anyone what took place here. The name's Higgs." The shrew held out their paw and Laurence hesitantly shook it. "And I have an interesting proposition for you. But let's talk somewhere with less... prone bodies nearby."

The bluejacket creature led him away from the lower class and toward the finer districts again. Here the buildings were not compact or tiny in the slightest. Here, creatures actively roamed the streets.

"You're in luck. My master has just begun hiring new recruits, and I guarantee he'll love you. He will pay you more gold than you could have ever possibly imagined. All that he requires from in return is your mercenary skills. You are a mercenary, are you not?"

"Aye, I am. Who is your master?"

"Lord Cain Seftis, ruler of Marshank Fortress! Surely you've heard his name. Every creature from here to Illmarsh knows who he is!" There was a telling gleam in the shrew's eyes that he thought the world of his master.

Laurence shook his head vigorously. The name sounded familiar but not recognizable. He had heard so many names throughout the countless seasons of exploration. And most of them did not stick. "I'm not from around here, remember?"

Higgs wrapped a paw around the taller creature's arm and led him in the direction of Marshank Fortress. "Doesn't matter. Come with me to The Crucible, and I'll see to it that you get a one-on-one meeting with Lord Cain personally! Just follow me an' I will make all your wildest dreams come true..."


	5. Hope and Failure

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Hope and Failure**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

Ander's teeth clattered as he and a multitude of other slaves made their way across the snow-strewn fields towards The Crucible, a popular spot for woodlanders and vermin alike to go to for what some creatures would deem 'sickening entertainment'. The structure was massive, towering; a cold and imposing sight to all, what with winter's elements in full swing. It was said to have been built from the bones of old Fort Marshank, once ruled by Badrang the Tyrant himself...and yet Ander's brown eyes were trained hard on the ground.

Of course, the weasel did not know the myths. He did not know of The Crucible, or of its master. All he knew, at the moment, were the icicles that hung from his nose, and the harsh cold that was driving him to madness.

Ander had been captured by the pirates at the end of summer. His elegant blue frock coat may have been more than enough at the time but was not meant for the cold winter season, and, as he stepped, shivering and huddled, tail curled 'round his legs, the former vermin chief found himself wearing a deep-rooted look of hatred.

 _Curse these beasts. I deserve better than this,_ he thought, grimacing, and stepped again, and again, and again only to-

"Yaah!"

Violent paws grasped the collar of his coat and dragged him back! Ander yelped and kicked, the chains on his ankles clinking as the weasel scrabbled to keep his balance. He spun around as soon as he was released, ready to give the perpetrator a good chewing out.

But it was...a towering gray rat. Another towering gray rat.

Although heavily overweight, he looked a lot like the sea captain that would have slain Ander had it not been for the weasel's poison blade.

The rat thrust his paw in Ander's, waggling it as if the prisoner were a naughty Dibbun.

"Glad t'see at least one o' yous is eager t' get inside, but walkin' headlong inter th' gate jus' makes yer look stupid!"

Ander opened his jaw, emitting only a squeak of protest before his gaze landed smack on the lofty wooden planks that were the gate. There they stood, illuminated by large braziers of fire at the top. The line of slaves had shuffled through the field faster than he thought.

Ander shook his head. Some kind of terrifyingly powerful warlord likely ruled this place, and, as far as he was concerned, now was the time to at least try to give his captors the slip.

 _But..._ He grimaced. _I don't want to wind up like that sap that made a mess of himself earlier,_ thought the weasel with a dispirited kick of his footpaws.

"File in!" barked the rat after the doors had been pushed open.

The slaves lurched forward en massé, jerking Ander out of his thoughts. The weasel, who had not yet stepped, felt somebeast ram into him from behind. An odd mixture of fur and snow was now treading on his heels. Ander cursed, whirled on his feet, and smacked the perpetrator upside the head.

"Watch where you put those giant footpaws of yours, numbskull!"

"I-I did not mean..."

Ander rolled his eyes at the unlucky rabbit. _Look at him,_ he thought, curling his lip. _Sickening._

"What did you not mean, mmm?"

"I me-meant not to s-s-step on you, S-S-Sir."

Ander smirked. "Do you want to know something?"

He fixed the rabbit in his dark brown stare. "There's a reason beasts like you are so uncommon. Take a guess."

"B-because-"

Ander slapped a paw across the rabbit's mouth.

"Don't say it!" he paused, relishing the awkward silence that rose between them. "It is because you rabbits are so stupid that you all wind up dead, isn't it?"

"'S there a problem 'ere, mateys?"

Ander jumped. It was the rat who had grabbed him. The other guards were busy herding the remainder of the group inside, and they did not seem to be giving any slack to the one or so beasts that dared resist it.

Right now, it was just Ander, that malicious-looking rat, and the frightened mouse. At least Tiltsnout was not with them.

"How long were you watching?"

The weasel chose to stick his nose in the air and pretend that he wasn't cold. The rabbit, on the contrary, looked grateful to the rat and chased after the others as fast as his little legs could carry him.

The guard merely narrowed his eyes.

"Never you mind," Ander chuckled. "There is...no problem at all, actually. I just happened to be chatting with my dear friend there." He took one of his own whiskers in his claws and began curling it, but did not once remove his eyes from his adversary. "So? Why the question? Did you happen to be looking for one...?"

The rat's face while he reached for his dagger said it all. No, no he was not.

"N-nor am I." Ander grinned. He hopskipped through the gate as fast as the situation would allow, coming to a stumbling halt at the back of the group.

Somebeast he could not see addressed them. "Line up, an' we're gonna take yer chains off!"

The huge doors slammed loudly shut.

 **~.~.~.~**

 _Horrid, repulsive, appalling..._

Ander stood in the center of the slave pen.

 _Insufferable, ghastly, unspeakable place..._

His paws travelled up to his neck and touched metal.

 _And just when I thought I was free, too._

He dropped on his back in the dirt and tried wrenching the collar off with by shoving a footpaw underneath the band and kicking, to no avail. There was not enough room.

He tried using his front paws and tearing at it, and he thought that even holding it down to the dirt and lurching his body in the opposite direction would work...but the metal was too strong.

There was a keyhole, a clasp in the back of it, and he attempted picking it with his claws.

But they were not sharp enough.

And so he clawed his neck, but...ripping at his own skin could only do so much before it killed him.

The weasel lay on the ground, chest heaving. He still gripped feebly at the collar.

The eyes of certain slaves started boring into him. He had not noticed it in the heat of his struggle.

Some of the stares were critical, annoyed, judging; others were sad and pitying. And some watched with glazed, tired eyes that could only be saying one true thing: "He'll forget about it soon."

And he would.

He'd have to.

Ander eventually rose and fixed the peeping animals with a criminally dark glare as he patted flecks of dirt off his jacket.

"Pack up, you're making a scene!" he hooted.

To accentuate, the weasel blew a raspberry at the ensemble as they awkwardly scooted away.

Angrily pulling the collar of his coat over his actual metal collar, Ander stamped off, a humiliated grimace on his face.

First they expect me to be a slave and then they ruin my good looks. What's next, a full-blown death match?

He had sauntered into what seemed to be a mess hall of sorts.

The weasel's eyes dilated. Food! Actual food!

Some creatures were eating things so filthy and rotten it would make him gag and turn his nose, but he had spotted what he deemed to be the jackpot; a red apple, and it was being held in the paws of a vermin like himself.

Inhaling deeply, Ander swaggered over to him.

"Hey, you! You with the crowny thing..."

The ferret grunted and looked up.

Ander instantly noticed the wound on the other's head. He laughed sheepishly and tugged his ear.

"That's a nice c...well, the crown is sewn on. Is that apple sewn on, too?"

He knew almost instantly by the look on the ferret's face that he had made a terrible mistake.

The weasel straightened up.

"You do see," he chuckled, deciding to try again. "Everybeast that knows me will tell you that I am quite stellar. I am Ander the Prince of Weasels, the Perfect, the Undeniable..."

"What do you want?" the voice was gruff and unwelcoming.

Ander gestured pointedly to the ferret's apple.

"That. Give it to me, will you?"

The ferret stood up.

He was much taller than Ander, but the weasel nonetheless bore a smirk and made a grab for the fruit. "If you decide not to give it to me, it is my displeasure to inform you that you will be dealing with my wrath henceforth until you die."

The ferret drew his arm back at the perfect moment and Ander found himself grasping at air. He snorted.

"Do you want to die?"

The ferret snarled and snagged Ander by the collar of his coat, pulling him in.

"Listen, whatever your name is. I'll give it to you..."

He raised the apple over him and was about to break it over Ander's head when all of the sudden a quiet chill came over the room, like the eye of a storm.

The two stopped in their tracks.

There, striding in among rows of guards and more slaves, was a gigantic golden-furred wildcat.

Ander managed to wriggle free from the ferret's clutch. Every creature, Woodlander and vermin alike, had started whispering among themselves in a sort of nervous sweat.

The wildcat leapt onto a table and the room fell silent.

This is the Warlord! It has to be. Maybe I can barter with him...

"Hello!" the wildcat addressed the crowd. He had a showman's attitude, which caused Ander to perk up and pay attention. What would he say?

"I am Cain, reigning sovereign over Marshank and overseer of The Crucible..."

The creature's eyes continuously flicked two and fro and scanned the assembly, taking note of each and every one of them. "It has come to my attention that my beasts have brought back a slew of new gladiators. I must say, it is truly exciting to know that these battleswill now have a breath of fresh air-"

There was some paranoid coughing and shuffling among the new slaves.

The wildcat laughed jovially and covered his mouth.

"My dearest apologies, did I not clear that up? You are not here to work and scrape like common slaves. Oh, certainly, you will be expected to help with the upkeep of our grand estate, but your job is so much more important. You are here to fight, to honor the marsh and to entertain its people. Of course, not without proper training, but those who cannot keep up with the battle will die..."

He went on to explain the rules and expectations as well as The Crucible's schedule, but Ander's mind had disconnected from the speech altogether. It was but a nagging hum in the back of his head.

 _You will fight in my arena._

 _To the death._

He felt sick. Sicker than when he had been captured by the pirates, sicker than when he had tried to get his collar off, sicker than times when he had been so ill he thought he could hack up his lungs. Ander noticed the beasts start to disperse again and he stumbled back through the crowd, trying to get a grip on things.

He would die here.

He could not fight, so he would die here.

The weasel tucked himself in a tight corner and rested his chin on his legs, shaking sporadically as if he was cold.

 _I don't want to die!_

He sobbed.

The world was a bad place.

He was too perfect for it.

And because he was beautiful and the world was not, it wanted to destroy him.

 _I don't want to fight, or die, but maybe I will go and off myself before another gets to kill me._

He gulped and wheezed, blinking open his hazy eyes.

 _No._

He sniffed.

 _Nobeast gets to kill me, not even me. I am powerful._

 _I'm more powerful than they will ever think._

 _And I will get out._


	6. Paint it Black

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Paint it Black**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

A pair of gray eyes filled his dream, cold, dead, and damning. Tope wished them away, but they stared at him from the snow covered street.

Tope awoke to paws prodding the bump on the side of his head. Backing away from the touch, he fell off the side of the bed and scrambled to his feet. His head pounded like a drum as he relied on the bed to keep him upright. Eyes wide, he tried to figure out where he was. Rows of beds holding prone beasts, workers flitting between them clad in blue and brown and red aprons, quiet whimpers of pain, and the distinctly herbal scent all pointed to a healer's den.

He was in the last place in which he expected or wanted to find himself.

The pounding in his head grew worse as he batted away a vixen's paws as they reached for his head again. "Get your claws off me!"

"Stop being difficult. I'm-"

Tope gripped her paws tightly and kept his voice low. Forcing himself to focus on her eyes, he growled, "Go help someone else, or ye'll see what happens when I get _difficult._ "

Two pairs of paws pulled him back, but he offered no resistance and released the nurse. Looking at each of the guards, he waited for the tall gray rat and the heavily tattooed sea otter to release him before turning his back on the healer."Take me outta this hall o' death."

Scowl on her face, she instructed them to keep an eye on the stoat to make sure his head injury didn't turn into something worse. Tope had no intention of returning, of letting any of those beasts pour Gates-knew-what down his throat.

Waiting for the guards to finish their conversations, he patted his belt with his right paw. He grew keenly aware of the absence of the stones at his belt, and of the presence of the thick circle of metal around his neck. _A slave..._ Pushing down the initial fear that came with that realization, he told himself he would deal with this as he dealt with any other problem. Closing his eyes to consider what he knew, he found the eyes of the blue-coated cat staring back at him. Tope shook his head to clear the image, succeeding only in making his head hurt even more.

He wished he could be alone.

"Time ter find some 'light work' for ye," the rat stated. The guards gripped him by the shoulder and steered him toward the door. Tope kept his eyes down and obediently followed the two guards down along the corridors toward his new life.

His headache made it difficult to focus on where the guards were leading him. Feeling at his empty belt, he wondered what he'd done wrong. With only twelve stones left to earn, he should have been in the white. He'd had small misfortunes while in the white as a result of the choices of other beasts - a lost hat, a nasty splinter climbing through a window, being spat upon by an old hare - but he could come up with no reason for robbery, a beating, and a collar around his neck. Could the weasels somehow have counteracted his score? Was it the peacekeepers or the… the cat?

What would his father say if he were here? _"It's_ yer _choices that matter, me boy." "Everythin' ye do'll cost ye, one way o' the other." "Make me proud an' take care o' yer mother."_ The mantras brought him no relief or guidance, and he wished for the thousandth time that he could actually speak with his father once more.

Thanks to August and the others, he would never hear his father's voice again, nor that of his mother or brother. The healers' choices had sealed his family's fate five seasons earlier, sending Tope down the path that had ultimately landed him here. Thinking of those beasts brought the anger back, dulling his pain. Memories of watching his family die - and nearly dying himself - helped to center the stoat, reminding him that he still had work to do. He had a great many choices ahead of him, and with the proper diligence, he would win Fate's favor once more and find the path that would lead to fulfilling his vengeance.

For the first time, he took a good look at his surroundings. He'd been vaguely aware of the guards leading him between buildings, the sandy ground occasionally giving way to trip him. through roughly hewn tunnels, the uneven stone floor rising up to trip him now and again. Now he saw beasts with collars walking quickly, eyes on the ground, shoulders slumped as they went about their business. The sound of metal striking rock pierced his ears as he watched a group of slaves widen a portion of the hall with pickaxes. More guards watched both the mining beasts and the groups of collar-less workers who wedged large wooden beams against the ceiling.

"Hey Gromo," Tope heard the sea otter speak, "Bear is supposed t' be in the arena again tomorrow! You gonna see what Cain throws at 'im this time?"

The rat scoffed. "But Bear was jus' fightin' two days ago. An' a couple days before that! Ain't ye jus' a teeny bit sick of 'im?"

"What's t' be sick of? He tore the arm off a squirrel last week, and that's not somethin' you see every day!"

Tope's ears perked up. _Arms ripped off?_ He listened with a mixture of curiosity and disgust as he heard the two calmly discuss "Bear" and his recent matches. His first day in this Crucible, he gleaned from the guards a bit of what his new life would look like: fight, win, or die.

Before he could consider what that might mean for him, the sea otter opened a large wooden door and Tope was ushered outside into the chilly air. At the same time, he heard the familiar sounds of beasts shouting and grunting and hitting each other with blunt objects. As they passed onto the training grounds, Tope saw dozens of beasts paired off, trying with varying degrees of success to disarm or disable their partners under the watchful eyes of a handful of trainers. The stoat lowered his head and shielded his eyes against the painful brightness of the early morning light.

Headache returning in force, he wondered what would happen if he fought any of the beasts there. Aside from the question of how long he'd last in his condition, he had no desire to hurt anyone until he figured out how the scales were tipped. Turning to the guards, he asked, "What am I doin' here?"

"Well, ye ain't fightin'," the otter replied. "Doctor's orders."

Tope sighed with relief. He had time.

"Ye can head out," Gromo told his partner. "I can take it from here."

As the otter left, a weasel overseeing the slaves called out, "What're you up to, Gromo?"

The rat pointed a claw at Tope. "Gotta keep an eye on the new slave. 'E's not supposed ter fight today, on account o' 'is 'ead gettin' thumped. 'Ealer said 'light work only' an' I know you always got work."

"Really?" The weasel scowled at the notion before taking a close look at the new slave. "Oh! Is _this_ the crazy beast who killed Marshall last night?"

Tope looked away, trying not to let the cat's name sink into his thoughts.

"Sure is."

"Blasted furball had it coming. Hale's beasts don't know how to properly deal with troublemakers." Motioning for the two to follow, he led them to a pile of leather armor stacked haphazardly against a tall brick wall. Both had seen better days. Tope's gaze followed the wall up and he noticed a small crew atop the wall, talking animatedly with a large feline whose fur glistened silvergolden in the morning light. The wildcat adjusted his heavy forest green coat as he spoke with the workers, but his eyes moved around the entirety of the grounds, sparing a glance for the newcomers.

Tope wondered who the keen-eyed overseer might be when he heard Gromo whisper, "You got rocks fer brains? Don' look at 'im!"

"Here," the weasel spat as he picked up a brown-stained cuirass from the pile of armor. "You cleaned leather before?"

"Cleaned my da's when he'd-"

The weasel shoved the armor into Tope's chest with enough force to knock him to the ground. "Don't care about your life story."

Tope's head pounded and his vision went red with pain.

 _It would be so easy,_ Fate whispered in his ear.

His lip pulled back in a snarl as he slowly stood up. He said nothing as he glared at the weasel, claws digging into the leather armor.

Dismissively, the guard pointed to a nearby workbench. "Soap and rags are over there." Without another word, he left to keep an eye on the other slaves.

Tope's anger and headache waged war in his head as he carried the armor, Gromo standing a safe distance behind him. He grabbed a light gray rag out of a bucket and a lump of soap and set about roughly scrubbing at the dirt and dried blood.

" _Your da's travelled a long way this time, boys. If you can take care o' 'is gear while I get breakfast ready, he'll have a nice surprise waitin' for 'im when he wakes up." Clodagh Benwrath pointed Tope toward her husband's chestpiece and handed the shin guards and helmet to her younger son, Ennis._

Having a moment to think, he wondered if his self-restraint was something worth counting toward his score. Unsure of his current standing, it would at least be a place for him to start. Would that count toward the last twelve stones he needed or... The feline soldier once more invaded his thoughts, dead eyes looking at him, the feeling of claws trying desperately to pull the stoat's paws off of his throat. Tope pushed down the image and pushed the rag harder against the leather.

Yes, he'd killed, but it would be difficult to calculate just how that act affected his score. It wasn't like he'd killed an innocent beast. He'd been provoked. He defended his life and property, and surely Fate would see the value in his motives. As he wiped the excess soap off of the leather, he decided it would be fair for him to split his score down the middle, just to be safe.

 _A hundred to the white, a hundred to the black,_ he concluded. _All I need is a way to keep track._ He thought back to the construction crews and their hammering and chiseling and figured if he was lucky, he might be able to find just the right sized pieces and something in which to put them. Until then, he would have to see if he could keep the numbers straight in his head.

After setting the cuirass on the nearby armor rack, he grabbed another and reached for a fresh rag. He was just about to toss the dirty one aside when he noticed the contrast between the two, one dark reddish brown, and the other light gray. Perhaps, if he found nothing else to hold the stones… a few bits of leather or twine… They were filthy, but if he had to…

"Gromo! You draw the short straw today?"

Another rat approached the guard, taller even than Gromo and sporting a heavy black cloak that matched his fur. He wore a grin that curled up further on the right side of his face and didn't even bother looking at Tope as he approached the guard.

"Naw, ain' too bad, Cap'n. Only got one new beast t' keep 'n eye on, at least 'til lunch."

The Captain looked over at Tope's collar before turning back to Gromo. "Why is this one here instead of with the other slaves? He's not giving you trouble, is he?" Gromo explained his orders and Tope's injury, and the black rat huffed. Reaching forward, he grabbed Tope by the ear and pulled his head forward to see for himself.

Tope smacked the paw away and took a step back, trying very hard to remember that a poor choice landed him there in the first place. Tired, hungry, head pounding, and reaching the end of his patience, he straightened his spine and looked the rat in the eye.

The Captain stepped in close but Tope refused to move. Pulling a coiled leather whip from under his cloak and brandishing it in Tope's face, the rat spoke, "I knew a stoat who used to look at me like that… same eyes, too. Did well in the arena, but he had to be reminded that he was a _slave_. It took quite a few beatings, a week without food, some sleepless nights here and there, but eventually he knew his place." He nodded, "You're no different."

The black rat stepped away and pointed at Tope before shouting to the surrounding guards, "If this beast gives you any trouble, you come see Captain Whip!"

The guards nodded or shouted "Aye!" and Whip headed toward the exit.

"Where's this stoat now?" Tope called out after him.

The black rat stopped and glared, a look of more than just annoyance. "Dead, some five seasons ago. Now get back to work before I give you another lump to match."

As Whip left, Tope slowly returned to the armor. The rat's words ran through his head like a song: "Same eyes… five seasons ago… _same eyes… five seasons ago… dead._ "

The rags dropped from his hands. Quietly, he asked, "Gromo?"

"What?"

"Did a plague come through here 'bout five seasons ago?"

Gromo spat on the ground. "Bah, nasty one. Weren't a beast 'round fer miles didn't know some'un dead. How you hear 'bout that?"

Tope didn't answer.

His father had not talked about his last journey or how he earned all those scars on his arms and back and feet. A mercenary who showed no fear, who would fight an adder if it meant providing for his family, Dram Benwrath returned home having lost something. Tope could never figure out what had turned his father into a tired, broken beast. It hadn't been the plague.

 _Those healers may have let your family die,_ Fate said, _but this place killed them._


	7. They Whisper, And I Hear

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **They Whisper, And I Hear**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _Neither Cain nor The Crucible taught him to fear. He had always been a very frightened sort of beast, though I assure you he'd balk at the mere suggestion and shout to convince you otherwise. But deep down, I think he knew it was true. It's why he ran so far._

 _A beast can only lie to themselves for so long. It is simply the way of things. As winter inevitably plucks the dead leaves of fall, so too can truth not long abide deceit's stench._

 _I wonder, at times, what would have happened, had he heeded the truth earlier. What miseries and pains could have been avoided?_

 _...perhaps I'm not meant to know. Perhaps this is the way things were meant to be._

 _~.~.~.~_

Absinthe and thyme. The scent rested incomplete, missing the sweet of the gardenias, the cure of the old parchment, the fresh of the Moss reaching out to wake a sleeping world. The musk of the beast that gave meaning to memory.

Absinthe and thyme beckoned the darkness recede. The pungency of blood beckoned him awake.

Bechtel lurched forward, chest immediately catching upon something and tossing him back into the soft of a mattress. His wing prompted a sharp hiss. The sound did not reach far, only whispering of stone floors and wadded rolls of bloodied dressings.

"Don't ruin my work," rumbled a voice like gravel, though the speaker lay hidden in the blurred shadows beyond.

Bechtel tried to steady his panicked breathing as he regarded the pair of straps set oblique across his chest.

 _Look at your wing, Bechtel,_ the dying hiss bid him, then in its last throes told him of the bandage around his wingtip, as well as a lavender-smelling cloth carefully sewn around the hole in his wing, replacing Rigtail's aberrant application of "medicine." The sound ceased, and the world fell to the shadows once more.

"Your wing will heal in time," the same voice said. "So long as y' stay off it."

"Who are—"

Bechtel stopped when the words felt tight. Tight and cold, but only around his neck. _A shackle,_ the echoes said, confirming his fears. Thick, though light enough to only be noticed now. Squeezed taut, though not enough to choke. A keyhole clasp upon the back. A useless trinket, it appeared, though stories of slavers branding their captives with hot pokers or irremovable shackles came to mind—this marked Bechtel as property.

And the echoes did not stop there, speaking now of the other beast in the room: a hare, bent over a low table. The beast washed his paws within a basin, scrubbing blood and ointment from beneath his claws. His teeth and ears both drooped with age, but his shoulders defied this withering with a vigilant sharpness that bespoke a proud heritage. Bechtel froze at the image of the beast. Everything he ever imagined a proper Long Patrol hare to be stood before him, as if pulled straight from the pages of _Sagewick's Tales of Valour._

No pride or hope stirred within the bat. Only a sinking, horrible horror at the sight of his captor.

Bechtel jerked against the straps, flailing his wings to find some form of purchase. Hasty breaths turned panicked when he felt his wings restrained by a pair of powerful paws.

"What did I just tell you?" the hare growled.

Bechtel spat a gob of saliva in the direction of the voice. "Imposter! You're no hare, no woodlander! You're just one of _them!_ How could you?! How—"

Bechtel stopped when the hare reached up with one paw and pulled down the high collar of his shirt. He craned his neck to highlight the thick band of metal. Bechtel's throat went dry.

"Everythin' in shape here, Truson?" another voice spoke up.

"Fine, Oggo," the hare said. "Just a case of the jitters in this 'un. Hop back t' your patient."

A snort. "I expect the full story over some drinks tonight, chief."

"If you're sober enough to listen."

A chuckle, then footsteps padding away. After a time, the paws detached from Bechtel's wings. "Choose y' words carefully, lad. Here, the wrong ones kill you."

"I'm… sorry," Bechtel said, drawing in a trembling breath. "I didn't know you were also—"

Truson spat out a curse. "Flippin' bleeding again."

He stepped away to a bookshelf. It lacked anything in the way of literary achievement and delight, filled instead with vials and bottles and beakers and flasks. Bechtel noted several similar bookshelves lined all throughout the room. "Room" was, in truth, a crude term. It was better fit to be called a glorified hallway, packed tight with a dozen beds filled with the sick and sleeping. Three other medics maneuvered around the beds, tending to their patients with soft touches and voices.

"Why am I here?" Bechtel asked.

Truson retrieved a cloth and jar from a shelf. "On account of that bloomin' wing of yours, lad," he said, setting to work dabbing away the blood and applying a thin layer of ointment to the reopened wound.

"No, I mean, why am I here at all? Why bother healing me if I'm just going to…" He shuddered. "…going to die?"

"I'm a medic, lad. I heal whoever comes to my doorstep, and do as I'm told."

"Who told you to heal me? For what purpose?"

Truson glanced up from his work. "Y' really don't know anything about this place, do you?"

Bechtel winced. "I've… heard the rumors."

The hare snorted. "Not half of them true."

"But… some are?"

"Some. You're Cain Seftis' beast now, as we all are. I'm healin' you because he wants all his fighters to be healthy when they're judged in the arena."

"The arena?"

"The Crucible's namesake. The whole bloomin' reason this city's prospered. The horn'll sound and Marshank's masses will come. Whether for enjoyment or some sense of honor, they'll come to watch you fight, and watch you die."

Marshank. The name sent horror crawling through Bechtel's body. He remembered the tale of Martin, specifically the parts of the gruesome, grueling captivity of the woodlander slaves. Badrang haunted his dreams for a week after first hearing the story. His fear returned anew, amplified further by the hare's ominous words.

Bechtel searched for some fire of indignation lit behind those weary eyes. When he found none, he only managed of disbelieving, "You can't be serious."

Truson replaced the lid on the jar and stood up. "There. That should scab over by tonight, if you treat it well." He set the jar aside and dusted his hands clean on the cloth. "You'll be fit for combat by the time of The Culling, I wager."

Bechtel sputtered and stammered at the rush of questions running through his head. Upon seeing the hare walk away, he called out, "W-wait! How can you just say that? We're woodlanders! We're supposed to stick together!"

 _They hear you,_ the echoes warned, speaking of the fox and two weasel healers all shooting Bechtel looks. He didn't care.

"You're a hare!" Bechtel continued. "A bally flippin' member of the flippin' bally Long Patrol, aren't you? You're supposed to stand up for beasts in need and fight back against the scourge of the vermin! Where is your pride and passion?"

Something changed in Truson. A twitch of the eye, a flick of the whiskers, a stiffening of the paws. The languid medic seemed to melt away, parting back to reveal the warrior that lay underneath. A chill ran down Bechtel's back as he remembered the hare's earlier warning.

Truson drew in a deep breath, then the moment passed. Only the lazy-eyed medic remained, the warrior's rage put to death and cast aside. "I know what you are, lad. I used t' be you. A word of advice? That world y' came from? Of woodlanders and vermin, of Dark Forest and Hellgates, of feasts and families and freedom? Forget it ever existed. Consider it dead. There is nothing except the walls that surround us, and what happens within them." He stepped closer. "You are Cain's beast now. Living means doing as you're told. Living means doing whatever it takes to make it t' the next day." He leaned closer to Bechtel. "The sooner y' realize this, the longer you'll live."

No response came to Bechtel. Not even when the hare reached out and undid the straps pinning him down to the table. The shadows settled, and he found himself unwilling to part them.

"Drink plenty of water," he heard Truson say somewhere nearby, "and don't fly until your wing heals completely. Season's end, I'd wager."

Bechtel nodded. He thought he did. Perhaps it was too weak to be seen. _"To break even a proud beast such as a hare… Marshank is worse than the stories."_

His wings tensed against the bed. "No, you're wrong. I won't—"

The door to the infirmary cracked open, ushering in a vested-stoat and an otter wearing the ragged fare of a travelling type.

"Got a new volunteer," the stoat said, gesturing to the otter with his spear. "Gone an' injured himself."

Truson moved to the otter and bent down, examining the blood caking the otter's foot. Truson said something, and the stoat shouted something back in reply, but Bechtel stopped listening.

 _The otter,_ said the dying remnants of the echoes. _Look at him, Bechtel! Not just a traveler, look closer. The marks and scars of a warrior. The eagerness in his eyes. The missing shackle around his neck. He wasn't brought here. He_ came _here._

Fury flooded his veins. As it had when the mousemaid fell to the deck of the _Lucky Locket._ As it had when Gurry proffered his lies and false hopes to a desperate wife. As it had that very first time, so long ago, and many times since then.

"You! You _traitor!_ " Bechtel screamed, shoving himself up to his feet on the bed to glower at the vermin wearing an otter's fur. "Was it the promise of blood that brought you, or just the corruption in your black heart? Were you so easily drawn aside by the wickedness of the vermin?" The otter gaped stupidly at him, only accentuating his unnatural features of cowardice and depravity. "Spirits curse you and the vile mother that begat you!"

 _Bechtel, the stoat's spear!_ the echoes shouted. Bechtel ignored them, then felt something smash against his heels.

The bat fell, back hitting the edge of the bed on his way to the floor. Dazed, he felt paws grip him by the shoulders and hoist him up.

"Hoi! What's this 'un doing in here? It's volunteers-only in the Curatorial Hall! Do ye want me t' report all o' ya t' Cap'n Whip?"

"We're stretched thin with the reconstruction," Truson said. "The other beds are all occupied, and Administrator Hale specifically requested this one be examined before being detained."

The hawking sound of spit smacking wet against the stone. "Curse that cat, always mucking 'is paws in everythin'!" A snort. "Ah well, here ye go, volunteer. Pardon the mishap. I'll get this freak t' to the Drag where 'e belongs. Have his bed an' get that footpaw o' yers fixed right!"

The otter mumbled something in reply as Bechtel felt himself dragged from the infirmary.

"As for ye," the stoat growled in his ear, "we'll see what a night in the Drag does fer that attitude o' yers. And tomorrer? Heh. You jus' wait."

~.~.~.~

Bechtel's chin met the ground in a spray of sand and snow.

"Again!" shouted the large, rat captain overseeing the fight, "or I'll tear your other wing to match!"

For the twentieth time, Bechtel propped the blunted, wooden tips of his trident beneath him and staggered onto his feet. He took a moment to steady his breathing. Around him, the crash of wood and shouts of sparring beasts filled the air of the wide training grounds-a section of shoreline unfettered by surrounding buildings. Hope had briefly filled him upon first walking out, but the massive cliffside behind him and the indomitable sea quelled any potential for escape.

And so, he fought. The vermin, of course, fought with particular brutality. They were simply made for this sort of thing. The weasel, Ander, performed quite well with a replica rapier, and his braggadocio rang over even the din of wooden weaponry and grunting beasts.

"That one couldn't dodge a pinecone tossed by my grandmum, Cap'n Whip!" one of the nearby guards who deigned to sit and watch called out. Bechtel ignored the further jeers with a snarl.

"We could call a break," his sparring partner, a stoat named Tope, said. "Ye look like some water might—"

"I thought we were supposed to _fight,_ not talk," Bechtel growled, resetting his grip on the awkward, ungainly weapon.

The winter sun glared cold above them, trickling sweat down into Bechtel's eyes. The bat never realized how deeply he could yearn for the sodden cold of the Drag, the screams and sobs of foreign beasts that kept him awake all night, the bars that held this world of pain and danger at bay. At least there were no vermin in his cell.

The stoat kicked his paws twice against the ground and set his wooden club against his shoulder. He cocked his head and squinted his eyes. "So what even are ye?"

Bechtel scowled at the fiend. "A _woodlander._ "

Tope chuckled, a stupid, false smile appearing on his face, unable to hide those horrid fangs. "A've seen plenty o' woodland folk, and you ain't one of 'em."

A shudder coursed through Bechtel and set all his fur on-end. In an instant, he saw dibbuns in a vale, merchants on a path, families in a town. And he heard all of their jeers. Ratty Batty. Half-breed. Vulpuz-spawn.

Bechtel broke the memories with a roar, launching himself at Tope. He slashed the trident out in an arc, nicking Tope's ear as the stoat leapt back. He followed by slamming the end of the trident down, but the stoat disappeared.

 _He rolled around—!_

Something struck Bechtel's feet before the echoes finished, and he hit the ground facefirst. He winced, biting back a whimper of pain as the many sores on his body revived.

Footsteps approaching him. "Look, lad, I don' know why Whip's got me fightin' ye, but that rat's a brutal beast an' already in a foul temper. Give him a good show."" He leaned closer, and his voice fell even thinner. "I'll leave me left side open next time. Dodge, score a hit on me, an' we'll go from there."

Before Tope turned away, Bechtel tackled him with a screech. The pair hit the ground in a wild, flailing roll. Bechtel scratched out blindly, feeling his claw connect with something while a fist collided into his jaw. Sparks exploded in the bat's hazy vision. The anger rushing through his body kept him moving. He managed to scrabble his way on top of the stoat, hitch his claws into the shoulders of the beast's jerkin. Before he could smash the stoat's head into the ground, he felt the world spin as Tope flung the bat up over and onto his back. He saw a fist rear back when the thunder of a whip froze them both.

"One more strike an' the pair of ya get to spend the night with the rest of the corpses!" Whip hollered, readying his namesake for another strike.

Both beasts glared at one another, breathing hard. Slowly, the fist fell and Tope shoved himself off Bechtel.

"Was only tryin' t' help ye," he said, swiping the back of his paw across a bloodied nose.

"I don't need your 'help.' "

Captain Whip approached, pushing Tope aside and glaring down at the bat. "You fight like a pasty-faced, drunken hedgepig."

"Better than a vermin," Bechtel hissed back, moving to push himself back up.

A foot to his chest pinned him to the ground. "Ya wanna be a woodlander, creature?" Whip leaned down to better showcase his array of fangs. "Then you'll _die_ like one too."

"I'll take this one from here, Captain Whip," a sharp, but notably feminine voice spoke up.

Bechtel tried to speak and reveal the newcomer, but the foot against his chest held his breath hostage.

"This one's mine, Molly," Whip said. "Putting him through the fire, as it were."

A light-hearted chuckle. "You may just burn him, that way. Come on, I'll take him off your paws. That lizard from Sampetra is more your flavor anyway. He could do with being broken."

A long pause, followed by a snort. "…Heh. Did you take a fancy to this one, then?" Whip snorted, and then removed his foot from Bechtel's chest. "Rotter's all yours, Moll."

Bechtel slowly got back to his feet and dusted his chest off with several winces. He heard the rat and stoat's footsteps move away, and only then did he speak, "…thank you, miss—" His eyes went wide, and he staggered backwards. "Spirits alive, you're a bat."

Across from him stood not a bird, not a very large mouse with tarp glued to their limbs, but a bat. Quite unlike himself, with odd flaps of skin curling up and around her nose, but a bat nonetheless. Some affliction marred her wings, the membranes mottled and peeled away, but she was a bat all the same.

"How observant," Molly said, the pleasant lilt to her voice gone. She turned away. "Now follow me."

Without needing to order his feet, Bechtel followed. A dozen different emotions whirled within his chest. As they traversed back towards where the ground hardened and the buildings rose, he marveled at the confidence and purpose with which she walked despite the collar arranged about her neck. A strength flowed through this beast; the same warrior's strength that Truson briefly revealed. Yet this was no flicker of passion, but a state of existence.

And yet, caution prickled his every step as he followed her, through the streets and up a set of scaffolds. His performance in the training grounds spoke for itself and warranted no special attention, and the way she talked down the rat –a rat _captain_ at that – meant that the collar around her neck did not weigh as heavy as his own.

His conversation with Truson remained fresh in his mind, stilling whatever excitement and hope swirled within him. If a hare could be broken by this place, what hope did a bat have?

"We're here."

He glanced around himself. "…where is 'here'?"

 _A narrow walkway attached halfway up the massive stone walls of some large fortress. Guards line the side of every door, watching, while windows dot the circumference of the wall._ Bechtel's brow furrowed. "I don't get it. Why did you bring me here?"

Molly pointed a tattered wing to one of the windows. "Go and speak, then tell me what you see."

The distant shouts of a hundred beasts filtered through the windows, enough so that Bechtel could feel a thrum through his feet. It reminded him of the ocean deep aboard the _Lucky Locket._ Molly waited, staring at him expectantly, but said nothing further.

Slowly, Bechtel waddled over to the window. A nearby guard glanced once at him, but made no motion to stop him. Swallowing, Bechtel stuck his head partway through. The shouts throbbed louder. Not shouts—cheers, and not just of a hundred beasts, but _hundreds._

Swallowing, he sent out a feeble, "Um… hello?"

He heard the echoes try to speak to him, try to return, but they drowned in the sea of noise. He saw nothing.

"Louder," Molly prompted.

Gritting his teeth, Bechtel clicked his tongue sharply several times.

A second passed. He sighed, and moved to pull himself from the window.

 _Beasts,_ emerged one of the sounds from apart the din. _Beasts far below you in a craterous pit of swirling sand. Weapons at the ready. Two otters and a squirrel, and a badger opposing them, surely the size of a house. The squirrel is moving, edging around the circumference with his pair of swords ready to…_

The sound died, leaving only the ocean of voices.

"What do you see?"

Bechtel claws tensed against the window frame as a massive roar rose from the audience. "An arena. Huge and full of onlookers. There are woodlanders, and they're… they're fighting."

"Keep watching," she said, and so he did.

When he heard again of the battle, Bechtel lurched back from the window with a dry retch. The image of the severed squirrel upon the sand - body separated into two broken halves – burned into his mind. The badger trudged towards the two otters, flicking blood from his paws. Then the image faded.

Molly's claw touched his shoulder. "Watch."

"I've seen enough," Bechtel sputtered, still trying not to gag. "Please, just let me go."

Her claw shifted to his chin, and she swiveled his face to hers. "You must watch. Trust me."

He studied her face. Searched for some guile or deceit that would justify him flicking her claw from his face and stomping away. He found nothing but the eyes of an intense beast who spoke only with purpose, even if that purpose was not understood.

" _Living means doing as you're told."_ He remembered the hare's words, and wondered if this was what he had meant.

"O-okay," he managed, though far weaker than he intended.

Pulling himself back to the window, Bechtel clicked his tongue again.

The first otter lay dead in a crumpled heap. The second managed to stab their short sword into the badger's thigh before a devastating backhand sent the beast flying into the sand with a sickening crack of bone.

The audience, surprisingly, did not react. An odd silence settled over them all as the badger simply turned and trudged through the sands towards a massive, iron door.

Bechtel detached himself from the window, the sick feeling returning.

"What did you see?" Molly asked.

"T-that badger…" Bechtel steadied himself against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. "He's evil. He must be. The w-way he just… murdered those woodlanders…"

Molly did not respond immediately. Many seconds passed. When Bechtel's shuddering breaths finally evened out, she spoke, "You know, they gave him the name 'Bear' a couple years ago. No one knew his real name, but a folktale monster from across the seas seemed to fit. Eventually, it just stuck." She began to pace. "His story is more common than you'd think. Parents captured by Cain, they tried to escape, and for their troubles they were strung up for the crowd. A young badger left on his own, in a place like this? Bear learned to survive. He had help, here and there, but he's alive because he fought to make it to each day. And now he's the reigning Champion of the Crucible."

Bechtel gaped at her, horrified. "Are you saying I should be _proud_ of what I just saw? Do you want me to clap, cheer, congratulate that… that _monster?_ "

"This is your fate. I brought you here to show you firsthand what happens in the Crucible." She stepped closer to him. "You're either a Bear, or a corpse."

"I am _not_ a murderer," Bechtel growled.

She laughed. "Neither is Bear. You'd know that if you ever spoke with him. Kindest beast to ever sit down for tea. But he's a survivor."

Bechtel spun on his heel and paced back several steps. The air felt thin, and the metal around his neck tighter. The morning's stew of mash and overcooked carrot threatened to rise up his throat.

" _Living means doing whatever it takes to make it t' the next day."_

Whatever dishonorable views the hare held when it came to ethics, the fact remained that he was alive. Bear was alive. Molly was alive.

He hissed out a groan, running his wingtips over his scalp. "Oh, what's the use? You saw me today. I can't hold my own against any of those beasts, and I can't even fly now." He gestured with his injured wing. "Why bother telling me any of this?"

"Because I'm the one who trained Bear." As Bechtel offered her a shocked look, she held out her wings and displayed the torn and frayed membranes. "And because you don't need to fly to survive. I can show you how."

Bechtel paced once again. Harder and faster and thrice as long this time. Eventually, he caught himself against the edge of a windowsill. He clicked his tongue again. He held back the wince as he saw the last of the woodlanders' bodies dragged from the sands.

"Our reigning champion has brought justice to this hallowed arena once more," called out a well-dressed wildcat standing upon a podium overlooking the arena. "But the day does not darken yet, and there are more fights for you to witness. Fate has brought us a new beast, hailing from the mystical land of Helmsford, far beyond the reach of any of your maps. Let the air tremble as we welcome Laurence Copeland!"

A wild cheer erupted from the audience, blinding Bechtel to whatever else the echoes sought to tell him. And yet, the roar of the crowd sounded distant to him. A sinking realization settled into his gut like the anchor weight Captain Tiltsnout had fixed to him: one day, it would be his name called. His wingtips trembled against the window.

"M-Molly?" he asked.

"What is it?"

He bit his lip and willed his teeth to stop chattering. "Do… do you think bats are… v-vermin?"

He expected a laugh. A chuckle. A deriding comment. He heard only silence, and for some time.

"I used to worry about that," she said. "I wasted a lot of nights wondering which side I fell on. Then I saw a stoat sacrifice his life to save his two woodlander friends. The next week, a squirrel butchered those woodlanders because they stole his loaf of bread." He felt a claw touch his shoulder. "Now? I'm comfortable just being Molly."

Bechtel turned away from the window, staring instead at the blue and white above him. Ever featureless, even to his echoes.

He shut his eyes, breathed in the crisp, winter air, and felt the slight ruffle of it against his fur. He could almost see himself flying out from the arena, content to forget this place as one horrible, terrifying dream. Yet the walls, the cliffside, the ocean-they all trapped him here.

He gave his injured wing a flex. Season's end, Truson had said. Just survive one season.

It hadn't been the first time.

"I'm not going to die," he said, turning to Molly. "And… if you can help me survive, then I'll be whatever you need me to be." He drew in a breath and pushed away the unease prickling within him. "Where do we start, Boss?"


	8. Lustration

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Lustration**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

From the empty darkened alley to the bustling upper offices of the Crucible, it was easily an hour's walk. They passed the narrow market yards of Marshank, passed the cluster of towers standing higher than all the other structures, and waved themselves through the arena's entrance without any hang-ups or cessations.

And the whole time, Laurence followed close behind Higgs. His guide spent the entire walk to their destination painting a vivid picture for the brawny otter.

"Believe me when I tell you this, Laurence Copeland: all the money you could ever desire," said Higgs with a lilt in his smooth voice. "I know you are a bright sort of fellow. Just the kind of creature Lord Cain needs."

The otter could see all sorts of creatures inside these expansive halls of the Crucible. Some were familiar to him. Others he'd heard tales about. And there was a couple species Laurence had never seen before in his entire life.

"Wait here a moment. I need to speak with somebeast. They'll see to it that you get your meeting with Lord Cain."

The wait was not quite as boring as Laurence expected. Here in the open hall entrance of the Crucible, many creatures were actively moving about. Laurence watched with fascination as a pack of weasels toiled ceaselessly on construction for the outer walls of the arena. Overseeing the processions was a bespectacled elder mouse. And while the master fretted, a youthful fox apprentice was furiously scribbling down notes on a clipboard.

Higgs exited the chambers with a handwritten note and made a motion for Laurence to follow him toward another entryway. Countless ascending steps greeted the pair in the next room, hugging the circular walls.

When Laurence chanced a glance upwards, he saw dozens of branching pathways heading in different directions. _How does one not get lost in here?_ The thought of having no sense of direction in such a densely populated location like this irked the otter.

Near the stairwell exit where Laurence and Higgs departed, more constructors tirelessly worked. Tiny specks of falling snow made it through gaps in the stonework and formed unpredictable piles behind the workers and on the landing.

And yet despite all the uncertainty, with Higgs guiding the otter through the inner workings of the arena, they safely made it to the upper offices. Laurence presumed this was where Lord Cain worked.

"Okay. This is the place!" said Higgs. Laurence eyed the pair of weasel guards standing next to a plain door while the shrew guide gave him a few final instructions, "Knock on the door three times, slowly, and he will call you inside. Hand the note to Lord Cain, and your interview shall begin."

Laurence nodded and opened his mouth to express thanks for all the shrew's help when Higgs interjected, "And remember! Really play up your fighting skills against those thugs from the alleys."

"Thank you for all your help, Higgs! Can I expect to see you around later?" asked Laurence.

"Oh, don't worry, my friend- you'll see me around!" His guide gave him a wink and did not spare another word. He turned and whistled a cheery tune while marching back down the hall.

Laurence raised a fist. _Well, here goes nothing._ Three slow, sturdy knocks. No response. Did he knock too quietly?

"Give it another go," muttered one of the weasel guards. "He prob'ly didn't hear."

Laurence kept himself from looking too startled as he complied with the suggestion.

"Come in, I said!" came the sharp, precise voice from behind the door.

Laurence gave the door a push and stepped into the office of Lord Cain. It was smaller than the otter expected. And messier, too. The imposing wildcat wasn't even looking at the newcomer; he was manically scribbling down notes.

Laurence took a seat facing the long desk and he took that moment to look around the room and take in his surroundings. Piles of crates and cages behind the wildcat. A window to the right, overlooking a flat training grounds.

"Let's hurry this along, shall we?" Laurence turned to see the fearsome-looking wildcat, one paw outstretched. "The letter."

The otter handed the paper to Cain, who looked it over. The wildcat's eyes darted across the surface like a prowling hunter. Suddenly, he glanced up. "You dispatched seven thugs? All by yourself? Sounds almost bordering on unbelievable."

The otter stiffened. _Seven?_ He reluctantly swallowed the truth and doubled down on the ridiculous lie. "Heh. I wouldn't believe it m'self if it didn't happen to me."

Cain set the paper aside. "According to this report, it was Deputy Wimmick that recruited you earlier this morning. That's high praise coming from him." He rapped a claw against the wooden desk. "But seeing as the deputy hasn't left the Crucible since last week..."

 _Oh, by the Fates. Come on Higgs._ "Well, err-"

The wildcat was clearly too clever to be tricked, so Laurence decided to play a different card. "Alright, Cain. You seem like an trustworthy sort of fellow. So I'm going to be straight with you. My recruiter was not Winlock, or whatever his name was. The real recruiter wanted to spice up my resume to give me a better chance of being hired. It was only three thugs I battled in the alleys. The real reason I'm here is for money. I'm completely broke and I don't want to starve."

Cain's slit eyes narrowed further, and for a moment, the air in the room seemed to grow thicker. Then, all at once, the wildcat beamed with a pleasant smile. "An honest beast! Now that's something new." Cain scrutinized Laurence with a newfound vigor, and the otter acquired a sudden interest in the floor. "Yes… yes, you do look like you could be a good addition to the Crucible. Though I admit my disappointment that you only killed three hoodlums. With all the rabble that have come in from the docks recently, you'd be doing me a favor."

The wildcat stood from his chair and clasped his paws behind his back. "Still… three is better than most woodlanders. In light of your fibbing to the Lord of Marshank himself, I feel you owe me some honesty as recompense. Say… some personal questions about yourself?"

"Of course. I don't mind."

Cain's grin deepened. "Excellent! We'll start with an easy one. Where are you from? You look a bit different than the average otter." The wildcat procured several officious-looking sheets of paper from a drawer.

"My homeland is a place called Helmsford. It's far across the seas." Talking about his old stomping grounds caused the otter's mind to surge with memories of fonder times. He subdued the thoughts before they made him emotional. "On the other side of the world."

"And what brings you so far from home? A forbidden love? Fleeing from rebellion? Revenge? Finding your lost father? Escaping debt? An insatiable wanderlust?"

"The last one, I guess. Always wanted to explore the world. Even as a cub."

Cain took a moment to write upon the stack of paper. "Perfect. And another question: how do you feel about taking another creature's life?"

"Why- why do you need to know all of this?" The question bubbled out of Laurence when he could not hold it any longer. The questions were making him too cognizant.

"To sell you, of course!" laughed Cain.

 _Sell me?_ Laurence's vision beginning to cloud, his blood starting to boil. _Like a thrall? What kind of twisted, evil place is this?_ His paw instinctively reached for the family weapon at his hip, only to find it no longer there. _Sondern, my sword! What has happened to you?_

"-We need to sell you to an audience. That way creatures from all over will come to the Crucible and watch you participate in armed combat!"

Laurence felt all the tension in his body slowly drain out and his gelid expression came unstuck at Cain's finished response. _By the fates, that was a close one. For a moment it sounded like he was saying the gladiators were indentured here against their will._

"Are you familiar with Badrang the Tyrant? I would guess not, seeing as you aren't from here. Eons have come and gone since the Tyrant ruled these walls, and yet beasts still know his name. Do you know why?" Cain steepled his fingers. "Vision. Yes, I can see you fitting in quite nicely here, Laurence. You must have come seeking-"

The otter could hear the words, but had much difficulty focusing. His family's blade was no longer at his hip. Laurence feebly pawed at the vacant gap. There was no time to worry about this; there was a need to focus on what his possible employer was saying. Laurence desperately needed this career if he was going to eat tonight.

"-Here, we provide the nameless and the lost with that opportunity. All are equal in the Crucible, and here, you can make a name for yourself." Cain settled deeper into his chair. "What name do you wish to make for yourself, Laurence?"

Laurence gazed at his paws for a moment. "...I participated in a large-scale conflict back in my homeland, many seasons ago. There were... many hard lessons learned from that war. I'm just trying to-"

A knock at the door, and another wildcat poked his head through.

"You've been requested in the Hall of Champions, Cain. The constructors needs your input regarding the demolition of a certain wall."

Cain snarled. "Blasted beasts. They should know how busy I am."

"I tried to stall them, but I'm afraid they're quite insistent this time. They say it's an emergency."

"As they always are, no doubt." Cain sighed. "Laurence, I'm afraid your interview will have to wait for another day."

 _No! They don't understand, I need this job. I really need it-_

The door to his right came shut. The second wildcat stepped over the threshold, scrutinizing Laurence from tail to head. This one was even more regally dressed than Cain himself. If the otter didn't known better, he would have mistaken this one as the true Lord of the Crucible. "Laurence...? A new volunteer, Cain?"

"Yes, and quite the promising one, too." Cain held out a sheet of paper. "A war veteran, he claims."

The wildcat quickly scanned the sheet of paper. "Promising indeed." A smile perked at the corner of his lips. "Would be a shame to lose this one. More a shame that nobeast can be in two places at once."

"Speak your mind, Hale."

"What is a brother for but to shoulder some of the weight that troubles you?" The wildcat chuckled and set the sheet of paper back on the desk. "Let me finish interviewing this fine prospect, and you can deal with the wonderfully reasonable beasts in the Hall of Champions."

Cain's tail swished behind him. "Fair enough. It will be good practice for you. Between the noblebeasts crying for my ear and indecisive architects, I'm halfway to simply burning the whole place down." Cain grinned. "The burdens I must bear, alas." He pushed himself up from his chair. "Make sure every T is crossed, would you?"

"Naturally."

The Lord of Marshank marched out of the room with his pair of armored escorts, leaving the other wildcat alone with Laurence.

"Now then. Where did Cain leave off?" Hale pursed his lips, scanning the stray bits of paper in front of him. "Well, let's try a different approach. Ask me a question. Any one."

"Okay. Well, I was going to ask Cain a question about the arena. About the fighters. All of them are volunteers, right? They're choosing to be here?"

Hale made a sound in between a purr and a laugh. He answered, with a shake of his head. "Laurence, everyone who walks through that door does so because they want to be here. You have nothing to fear." He clasped his paws together. "Now then! I believe it's my turn to ask a question. Fair's fair, after all. What brought you here to Marshank? To the Crucible?"

 _Ah, not this again._ "Those are two questions."

The wildcat winked. "We can bend the rules here every now and then."

Laurence shrugged as he responded, "Just an extreme case of wanderlust. I told Cain the same thing."

Hale stroked his chin for several drawn-out seconds. Laurence met the wildcat's gaze, and neither said a word.

"Well!" Hale said suddenly, breaking eye-contact with the otter and swiping up a parchment. "That does answer both my questions, I suppose. No further ones from me." He set the parchment down and tapped a claw. "All that's left to do is sign here at the bottom of Cain's contract, and the job is yours."

"That's it? I just sign here?" said Laurence with surprise.

Hale nodded emphatically. "Of course! I can tell that you're just the sort of beast that Cain wants here in the Crucible. A perfect fit. As my brother says, the willing make for better sport than criminals and trials."

Well that was easy! Laurence signed the contract without a second thought.

"Excellent, excellent! Welcome aboard, Laurence Copeland!" The smile turned wry upon the wildcat's face. "I feel a need to point out, however, that your footpaw is bleeding all over Cain's floor. Might I recommend you avail yourself of our medical facilities?"

The otter looked down and observed the deep cut on his ankle. He'd become so used to the numbing pain that he forgot all about it during the interview. "Right..."

"I'll have somebeast escort you to the right place for treatment." Hale clapped his paws twice, and a stocky stoat sauntered into the room. "Ansley, please escort our newest volunteer to the medical wing."

Laurence stood from his chair and gave a nod of gratitude to Hale before following his newest guide out the office door. He quickly discovered that, unlike his last escort, the stoat made no effort to start up a conversation. The otter was grateful for the quiet trip. It gave him time to recollect his thoughts.

~.~.~.~

The medical wing was not too far from the upper offices; the pair walked down a flight of stairs and rounded a corner before reaching the right hallway. Ansley peeked into a few rooms before he eventually found the correct room.

Inside, it was cramped. The mixed stench of sweat and metal permeated the room. There were three medics moving from bed to bed, checking up on each patient. A fourth medic approached the newcomers the moment he heard them traipse through the doorway. It was a thin hare wearing a white coat.

"Got a new volunteer. Gone an' injured himself," said the stoat guard gruffly. He used his spear to point toward Laurence's footpaw.

The medic got to one knee and scratched his chin while examining the wound. "Knife wound, two inches deep. A couple hours old. Find an open space, take a seat. One of my doctors will treat you soon-"

"There ain't anyplace for 'im to lay down," said Ansley indignantly. Again he used his spear to drive the point home, this time to gesture at all the occupied beds. Laurence had to duck under the sweeping spear shaft.

While the two Crucible workers clashed, the newcomer otter was in the process of leaning against the nearest wall for temporary support when a shrill, reedy voice assaulted his ears. "YOU- YOU TRAITOR!"

He turned to face the speaker. Laurence's mouth was agog at the unearthly sight: it was a large, brown, leathery-winged creature who owned the ugliest face Laurence had ever seen. A stone choker was wrapped around the neck. _What in the fates is that thing?!_ The monster was pointing a claw towards Laurence, lobbing a barrage of insults at him. Because the otter was so repulsed by the creature, he didn't even catch what it was trying to say.

A swipe of Ansley's spear toppled the creature to the floor and shut him up. "Hoi! what's this 'un doing in here? It's volunteers-only in the upper Curatorial Hall! Do ye want me t' report all o' ya t' Cap'n Whip?"

"We're stretched thin with the reconstruction," the hare said. "The beds in the lower levels are all occupied, and Administrator Hale specifically requested this one be examined before being detained."

The guard viciously yanked the bat off the bed by its wing. "Here ye go, volunteer. Take this 'un's bed. I'll put the freak in the Drag, where 'e belongs."

Laurence apprehensively flipped the sheets before taking his place on the bed. _How am I a traitor?_ The otter chalked it up to just the ramblings of a mad beast. Laurence was figuring the bat to be a mentally ill patient, what with all the yelling and writhing. The Drag must be where they take the creatures who go insane.

Before long he had the undivided attention of a doctor, who meticulously worked on Laurence's footpaw. Only once it was completely sanitized and bandaged was he left to his own devices.

No more than a few minutes later he received the most unexpected visitor. _Wander!_ The Arbington maid entered the room and was asking for the whereabouts of Laurence when she caught sight of the mercenary waving her over.

"Well aren't ye a sight for sore eyes!" said Laurence excitedly, a huge grin on his face. He noticed the sword she was carrying in her claws. "Sondern! Ye brought my sword with you. I can't believe it!"

"You left it in your room," explained Wander while handing the weapon over. "I mean- I'm fairly certain it's yours. You were the... the one sleeping on the second floor, third room on the left?"

"Aye. That was me. My thanks to ye, for bringing me my family's weapon! Can't say thank you enough!" Laurence laid the weapon alongside him in the bed, under the blankets. He kept his right arm looped around it.

Wander saw the fresh bandages on his footpaw and she shook her head. "I see some of the hooligans terrorizing the lower districts met with you."

"Haha, yeah they did! But you should see the other guys. None of them will be robbing anybeast anytime soon!" said Laurence, following up with what he hoped was a sultry wink. _Maybe it's finally time for me to settle down._

"So now you're a volunteer for the Crucible." Her eyes were fixed on his injury. "I... didn't figure you to be the bloodthirsty type."

 _No, I can't settle down here. This is not my place._ "A job is still a job. I'm going to be making good money here," explained Laurence. He didn't want the maiden thinking he was a bad woodlander. "And once I make enough, I can start moving on again."

"Is that all you ever do? Visit someplace for a while and then leave? What about... what about all the friends you make? What a lonely existence." She crossed her arms and locked eyes with the male otter.

 _It's more complicated than that._ Laurence looked around to make sure nobeast was listening to their conversation, before he lowered his voice. "I have... responsibilities to take care of back home, some day. It wouldn't do me any good starting a life out here."

The maiden took her place at the edge of the bed. "You are just... so... what's the word..." By turning her head away from him she was actively searching for inspiration regarding her word choice, the mercenary figured. "...peculiar."

"I guess you could say that," replied Laurence.

"Have you ever... met somebeast who made you want to stick around?" asked Wander.

All the faces of every creature Laurence had met over the last eleven seasons surged to the forefront in a slideshow of mental images. "Sure. I've met a lot."

"Oh. Okay," said Wander, starting to lift herself off the bed.

Laurence grabbed her arm before she could get far away enough from his grasp. "Look. Let me make it up to you for the tender gesture of bringing me Sondern. My first Crucible fight should be very soon. Place all of your life savings on me. I can guarantee you that I'll win."

Wander had the most endearing laugh. She cupped a paw to stifle her giggling, as she said, "You must be awfully positive in your fighting skills! Do you... promise me you can win?"

"I promise." Laurence had to resist himself from giving her a peck on the cheek in the heat of the moment.

"If you say so, Lucius," beamed Wander, giving him a big smile. _Wait. Did she just call me Lucius?_ By the time he recovered from his confusion, the maiden had already departed.

~.~.~.~

After spending the night in the Curatorial Hall, Laurence was given leave. A new escort led the otter to his new living quarters. This one was more talkative than Ansley, but still less so than Higgs. The escort explained to Laurence that they were to be his new training master.

To fill the void of silence during the long walk, the mouse explained to Laurence that since some of the Crucible was still under construction, his new home here was a lovely little set of dormitory rooms called the Windy Bastion. Gangs of volunteers numbering between five to eight would live together in a single room.

The dormitory rooms were adorned with a mural showcasing immaculate designs of a cliff side overlooking a thorn bush. White squiggly lines meant to illustrate wind raked through the artwork. Laurence took time to admire the piece of artwork while the mouse escort gathered each of the six Windy Bastion inhabitants.

Each one took a moment to introduce themselves to Laurence, but he forgot each name as quickly as it took to get through them all. Most of them departed to their private rooms while two of the new roomies kept up the banter with Laurence in the dormitory foyer.

"Ah. I see you have a wound," tittered the last roommate, a lean fox with tattoos covering both arms prodded Laurence after sighting his bandaged footpaw. "I know what you are trying to pull, hahaha! Don't worry about it, matey. A couple o' us did the same exact thing!"

Laurence blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"You signed up for the free healthcare, didn't you! That's what Gawain did too."

"Right... um, what was your name again. Guess I missed it the first time," inquired the otter.

"That's a funny joke, mate!" said the tattooed fox with another playful nudge. Laurence was growing annoyed at the overly annoying character and he walked into his assigned room for some much-needed peace and quiet. "Almost thought you were being serious, mate!"

Inside his room was another fox, this one not nearly as tall or strong. And much lower energy, noted Laurence.

"I apologize for Iwan. He doesn't realize how... overbearing he can be at times," they explained.

"Hey. Thanks. I appreciate that."

"This might be a bit sudden, but... You should come with me and Iwan to watch the Culling."

"What's this Culling you mentioned?"

"It's, uh... a good way to introduce somebeast to the Crucible. That is probably the greatest way to describe something... like that."

Just moments later, Laurence heard the voice of somebeast calling his name. With a sigh, he pushed himself back from his room to face another bluecoat. They saluted before beckoning him to follow.

The rhythmic beat of their footpaws against the stone floors in the volunteer's halls rang out.

"What am I being summoned for?"

"I was given orders to bring you to the arena. Brace yourself, mate- your first fight is here. It's going to be a tough one," explained the guard breathlessly. "Your opponent will be The Mauler. He has only been defeated once ever. And he does not spare his enemies... even if it is their first time in the arena. I won't lie to you, this fight is probably going to be very one-sided. I-I am just at a total loss as to why Lord Cain would set you up against a veteran so early in your career-"

Surprisingly enough, pangs of anxiety racked the body of Laurence, causing him to physically shake. _I'm going to be fighting for my life in there. For everybeast to see. All of them will watch me take another life, or watch as I am snuffed out._

He let the feelings crash over him to remind himself he was vulnerable. That he was alive. After a solid minute of slow, patterned breathing he was able to lower his heart rate back to normal. Another old trick he'd learned from his warring days.

In the armory, he was greeted with a familiar face: the same stoat guard from yesterday.

"Good to see yer again, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." After seeing the quizzical expression on Laurence's face, Ansley gave a grim smile and answered the unspoken question. "Glad yer asked, volunteer. After pullin' a few strings with Wimmick, I got the job o' being yer trainer."

Laurence considered asking why, but decided to leave the question for another time. Instead he asked, "So what are the rules of Crucible fighting that I should know?"

The stoat gave a sneer and spat on the ground. "Always put on a show, even for the old 'uns who come an watch fer honor. There will be a crowd watchin' yer every move. Also, yer don't really have t' kill yer enemies in the arena. But it def'nitely sends a message that yer mean business. Less threats to deal with, too."

An idea came to Laurence. "Is it possible that- say if I lose, could the sympathy of the crowd could keep me alive?"

"Aye. They could, but t'would not be that likely. The crowd don't like losers; honor and such." The stoat used a claw to point at the mass of weapons lined on the shelves and walls before him. "Take yer pick on what ye plan on using out there in th' arena. Ye can only choose two."

"I'm using my family sword as my first choice." Laurence glanced around the room. Swords, spears, daggers, rapiers, cutlasses, maces and clubs laid before him. None of them were catching his attention. But eventually his eyes landed on the spear pike mounted on the far wall. He took it in both paws and felt the light but sturdy weight against his grip. "This will do as my second."

Ansley led him to the black wooden double doors leading into the entrance of the arena. Behind it the otter could hear the roars and shouts of countless creatures readied for the imminent sight of combat.

"Wait fer Lord Cain t' call yer name."

"Our reigning champion has brought justice to this hallowed arena once more," called out a well-dressed wildcat standing upon a podium overlooking the arena. "But the day does not darken yet, and there are more fights for you to witness. Fate has brought us a new beast, hailing from the mystical land of Helmsford, far beyond the reach of any of your maps. Let the air tremble as we welcome Laurence Copeland!"

The Lord of the Crucible's distinct voice barely found its way through the cracks: _"...the day does not darken yet, and there are more fights for you to witness. Fate has brought us a new beast, hailing from the mystical land of Helmsford-"_

Laurence resolved that he was going to survive this battle. He was going to live and make it back home. And put on the show of a lifetime. One way, or another.

 _"-Let the air tremble as we welcome Laurence Copeland!"_

"Go an' make Lord Cain proud, volunteer. Come back in one piece."

The doors creaked open. Laurence stepped out into the bright, wintry landscape and took in all his surroundings. Innumerable faces stared in mixed reactions at the appearance of the newcomer. Surprise, glee, anger, and so many others.

The sun above was obscured by a thick white wall of fog. Every step he took closer to the center of the arena, snow flecks started to fall faster. It started to pick up in speed and make a crescendo of noise. _Blizzard!_

Lord Cain sat on a wooden throne on top a podium above the crowds, watching from the edge of his seat. A few seconds flickered by and the rolling fogs obscured the wildcat from sight.

The same familiar ravenous winds from before ripped through the clothing Laurence wore and chilled him to the bones. _They're actually going to make us fight in a blizzard._

Bloodied corpses, crushed and dashed against the white ground. Turning it a hauntingly beautiful crimson red. Some of the bodies were missing heads. Others were torn into little pieces. Laurence had to step over the arm of an unidentifiable creature.

An outline of his opponent highlighted the view ahead and caught his attention. Laurence immediately recognized the features of a hare- long, floppy ears, twitching nose. A mace was slung across his back. No armor, just like Laurence. Only trousers and a ragged jacket.

Drawing his sword Sondern from his hip, Laurence did what he would always do before every battle. He pierced the blade into the ground and began to give a swift prayer to the Fates above. All while watching his opponent slowly march closer.

"By the blood of my father and mother. By the blood of my brothers... Blessed be the followers. Fates. Give me strength, give me wisdom."

All around Laurence, the storm continued to pick up and winds danced. He raised his sword again and closed the distance between himself and the enemy.

~.~.~.~

By the time the doors closed once again, Laurence had to tenderly wade through the pile of snow that had collected so quickly. Several beasts walked up to greet the victor of the gruesome battle.

Laurence and his coat were slathered with dried, crusted blood. Some was his, a majority of it from The Mauler. A long jagged cut along the side of the abdomen. His left knee felt like it was in a thousand pieces.

Nobeast could believe he'd won the fight. Some of them called the battle a foul, seeing as most of the conflict was not actually witnessed by the audience.

"My-my-my sword... S-S-Sondern..." the otter could barely speak. He felt consumed by intense warmth, and yet was stiffer than a deadbast from the cold. _I can't feel my arms. I can't feel my legs. So hot-_

 _"_ Don't worry, Laurence. We'll see to it that somebeast retrieves your sword from the arena." said one guard with a soothing tone.

Two creatures helped him onto a stretcher. One of the creatures would not stop prattling in Laurence's ear. "The fight- that was amazing! The way you handled the situation after losing your weapons. Holding down The Mauler below that icicle? Just ingenious!"

In the corner of Laurence's vision, he could see Ansley the stoat watching grimly as the otter was led away to the medical wing for a second time.


	9. The Culling

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Culling**

 _A Collaboration, Feat. Bechtel, Ander, Laurence and Tope_

* * *

A black flag rustled over the training ground door, the image of three beasts battling in a ring painstakingly sewn onto the fabric. Tope beat his fists against the large, sand-filled bag, doing his best to ignore the reminder of what was coming.

"The Culling," Deputy Wimmick had called it. "Most of you will die tomorrow, so make a good show of it!"

While Captain Whip stood a distance away watching the slaves react to the news, his lieutenants explained the rest of the details: The slaves would be battling volunteers, the former unarmed and the latter carrying whatever they were comfortable with. Tope's ears perked up as he listened to them explain that if a slave managed to kill a volunteer, they would be automatically saved from the rest of the Culling, and he ignored the guards as they added something about about "the first steps toward fame and glory."

Over the last week, Tope had behaved himself, and had slowly scored a few points for himself, keeping track with the light and dark gray bags of filched cloth he kept under a pile of straw in the Drag. He taught a few beasts how to throw a punch and how to take one, occasionally gave a bit of his meal to some of the other slaves, and kept himself from taking a rock to Whip's face. The rat seemed convinced that Tope would try to escape at any moment, and as much as Tope wanted to explain that his father had never even mentioned the Crucible before he died, he doubted the word of a slave counted for much in Whip's eyes.

Still, Tope kept his eyes open during the week, taking note of the few areas he was permitted to visit. He looked at the gaps in some of the walls and other half-finished projects left by construction workers; overworked and inattentive builders who were frustrated with the slaves, the guards, and each other; the ladders and scaffolding that were meticulously removed or guarded every night; and the guards who roamed the halls at all hours of the day and night. With business still to attend to in Marshank, he had to find some way out, but the Crucible was being transformed from a prison to a fortress.

 _Kill a volunteer!_ The words echoed in his head, another choice for him to make in the coming day.

Tope didn't know any of the volunteers. Tope knew Fate would frown upon him killing most of the slaves, but the volunteers all _chose_ to enter the arena. To murder unarmed strangers, to take pleasure in the deaths of beasts whose only crime was unfortunate circumstances was monstrous! Surely Fate would not penalize him for sending just one of those creatures to the grave. He would be protecting the slaves! That had to count for something.

Snowflakes melted on Tope's eyelashes and he raised a paw to clear the moisture away. He knew what he had to do, but as he beat against the sandbag, a touch of doubt disturbed his usual calm assurance.

"Oy!" a blue-clad sea otter shouted at him. "Back to the Drag, it's lights out!"

Tope gave the bag one more left hook before he turned toward the guard. _Another of Whip's spies,_ he told himself. They all were. Always around to tell him what to do, where to go, and, if the rat had his way, how to die. Allowing himself to be led away from the training grounds, he acknowledged the possibility that he could be killed the next day.

He would kill, if that kept him alive, but he would not perform. If he was going to die, it would be on his terms.

~.~.~.~

"I have good news and I have bad news. The good news? You're finally in a good enough condition to leave the Curatorial Hall."

Laurence stared at the vixen healer through red-rimmed, feverish eyes. "And the bad news?"

"The bad news? We, um... we think it would be in your best interest to use a walking cane in the coming days."

"A cane. No. No, that's not necessary," said the otter with confidence. He propped himself up and sat at the edge of the bed. Laurence tried to stand up but lances of pain shot up from his knee and forced him to sit. "I don't need it, doctor. Truly."

"Well then. When you change your mind, it'll be right here." The healer placed the cane against the bedpost, and turned away to leave.

"Just a moment more of your time, marm." said Laurence. As the vixen was turning back around he continued, "Tell me, doc. Were they able to find Sondern? ...my weapon, I mean."

"They couldn't find it." She was turned away once more to leave.

Laurence growled. His mustache was furiously twitching as he replied, "You're telling me. That you can't find my weapon. In a small. Circular. Arena?"

"I don't know how. I don't know why. Now can you please let go of my coat so I can get back to my job?" said the vixen indignantly. The otter noticed his fierce grip on the end of her outfit and he released it.

"It's because Cain wants t' reward ye, that's why."

Laurence looked to see Ansley step through the doorway, teeth revealed in a sneer. The stoat's jaw worked furiously on a clump of chewing tobacco, and he took regular pauses to spit.

"What do you mean reward me?"

"Lord Cain insisted once yer weapon was found, that there were... modifications made to it."

Ansley held out a paw to help Laurence out from the bed. The otter placed all his weight on the smaller stoat and the two collapsed to the ground in a heap.

"Use th' blinkin' cane they gave ye, y' moron!" snarled Ansley, shoving the gladiator away from him.

At the insistence of his trainer, Laurence reluctantly reached for the crutch and used it to prop himself back up. He took a few steps with the cane and admitted only to himself that it indeed helped.

Once he felt confident enough to leave, he followed after the guard out from the room and they made their way out the Curatorial Hall. The few windows they passed depicted the same dreary winter landscape of the season, soiling an otherwise perfect sunny afternoon.

"What... 'modifications' did they make to Sondern?" Laurence asked, his chest constricting.

Ansley chuckled, patting his shoulder. "Don't get yerself in such a twirl, mate. Ain't nothin' big, jus' a surprise fer ye." He winked, then continued, "Did ye know, ev'rybeast from here t' the edges o' Marshank has started callin' ye th' Frostfang."

"I know," interrupted Laurence, flinching at the new moniker, "I hate that name."

"Ye should feel honored. It's not often a gladiator is leavin' th' arena fer th' first time an' the crowd is already chantin' their Crucible name. Ye inspired them."

Their trekking brought them to the open entrance hall of the Crucible. Laurence couldn't help but notice the countless banners hanging against the pillars and from the ceilings depicting three creatures in a circle, locked in combat. Heading in the direction of an increasing cacophony of sounds, he asked, "What is all this? Is there a special Crucible event of sorts going on today?"

"Aye. Follow me. I got somethin' that should cheer ye up." His voice had almost been lost in the din of noise. An enormous mass of creatures from all walks of life were packed in the hall, forming something that only halfway resembled a line.

The two were able to cut a swath through the horde of visitors. Inside the tunnel it filtered into stairs. Then the arena. And what a spectacle to see! Above Laurence, to his left, and to his right, spectators in their seats. Before him was the snow-covered arena. Seeing the place where he lost Sodern only made him miss the ancient sword that much more.

"What's going on?" asked Laurence as he followed the stoat into a closed-off section of the stands, reserved for other volunteers. As they took their seats, the otter observed a limited number of weapons placed in the center of the arena. Some of them were half-buried into the blanket of snow. "What is all this?"

"It's the Culling, volunteer. Jus' sit back and enjoy the show-"

The booming voice of Lord Cain cut across the bluecoat stoat. "Good afternoon, maidens and gentlebeasts!"

~.~.~.~

Ander's head hurt.

First, he was sleeping-fitfully, but he dreamt of adoring fans and gold and showers of wine. And then suddenly, snapping him out of his rest, he was hauled onto his paws and berated by an officer for not waking up at the order. More precisely, for not being awake enough to _hear_ the order.

He held his paws akimbo and drowned the guards in abhorrent words, but they did not punish him because they told him he would die today.

Ander stood in front of the assembly of new slaves after being marched up to a brilliant golden gate.

The guards didn't open it just yet, and they told the Culling participants to wait and stand still.

The guards gave a monotonous recap of what would be going down, rules and regulations and a final farewell, but once again the words were meaningless and the farewell danced through Ander's tired ears.

"I'm not going to die today," he mused in a slurred whisper to the stoat standing next to him.

"Nobeast's going to be stupid enough to fight each other anyway. _I_ say, the moment we get out there, we turn on _them_."

Before the one-sided conversation had time to continue, Ander heard commotion from the other side of the gates and noticed that ever-so-hated golden wildcat, Lord Cain, addressed the audience.

"Maidens and gentlebeasts! I have worked very hard to find contestants from every walk of life, and I am more than proud to announce that we have a very special show for you all today. It is my pleasure to introduce this month's Culling!"

The way he moved was so gallant, so _showy_ , it made Ander drop his sleepiness for full-on envy.

 _He's showing me up!_

The weasel squirmed where he stood and ground his teeth together.

"Forget what I said before. When I get in there, I'll make everybeast drop dead from a mere glimpse of my talent! I am ready!"

The gates swung open.

Ander's heart leapt into his throat.

Nothing in the world could ever make him ready.

~.~.~.~

The arena drummed heavy with the prattle of expectant beasts—an anticipant shudder of a predator before their prone, helpless meal. Beneath the hungry gaze of the audience, Bechtel huddled among the forty gathered slaves. Sobs and growls alike bubbled forth all around him.

"I don't want to die," whimpered a volemaid beside Bechtel.

"We'll make it through this, Ms. Adelaide." A rat placed a comforting paw on her shoulder.

He stiffened at the motion, but remembered Molly's words the first day of their training, _"Only ten of you will walk out from that arena."_

The iron condemnation shackled around their throats quelled Bechtel's disgust. Thirty beasts in short time would be dead. He regarded Tope, who wore an indomitable mask as he whispered encouragements to the beasts around him. Then Ander, whose usual flamboyant pomp fell to a primal fear. In a strange way, Bechtel envied the stoat, and understood the weasel.

None of them deserved this.

"Take a good look at your prospective gladiators!" Cain's voice cut loud across the arena. "Not all of these beasts will live to see another hour, but those who are strong, those who are bold and brave, they will deserve the honor of fighting for your cheers in the future!"

As the crowd cheered once more, Bechtel ignored the tyrant's further ramblings to focus on the ten well-armored volunteers pacing at the other end of the arena. Their tails flicked at the blanket of snow atop the sand as they brandished their assortment of weaponry. These were skilled beasts who came here only to kill. Woodlanders and vermin alike.

Winter's chill fell from his shoulders. The hackles of his neck stood up as he took a preparatory step forwards.

" _Stay calm."_ Molly's voice again, spoken this time overtop plates of undercooked potatoes. _"The Culling is made to frighten and anger you. Cain has no use for cowards or fools. Everything is designed to weed those beasts out first."_

Bechtel stepped back as five days of aches, pains, and wisdom quickly refreshed in his mind. He remembered her warning to avoid the few weapons set out in the middle of the field—a trap only for stupid beasts. He remembered the dangers of staying too close the edges of the arena, laden with spear-filled trapdoors. He remembered her cautioning him to avoid any rash decisions, to only concentrate on avoiding attention.

Cain's dulcet proclamations ended. The crowd's hunger fell to silence. The volunteers stopped pacing. The slaves quivered and quaked. The echoes told Bechtel of the wildcat's claws rapping against an aged warhorn. He tried to stop his own heart from crashing so hard against his chest. All waited for the siren to signal the slaughter.

In a moment, the world shattered.

A horn, blaring out like the dying cry of a mythic beast, then overtaken and swallowed by the thunder of the crowd. A torrent of paws and limbs as the slaves scattered, pushing and shoving until Bechtel struck the cold sands. A cry, a shout, a sound, but none of the echoes returned from the roar of the battlefield. Only blighted eyes and shifting blurs to show him the chaos unfolding.

He searched for Molly's wisdom in the chaos, but heard nothing over the screams of the slaves. Over the laughter of the volunteers. He huddled to the ground, gasping in too-heavy air. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. Perhaps hours.

"Hoy!" Paws gripping at his wings, pulling him upright. "Are ye all right, Woodlander?"

Bechtel blinked at the vague blur of a face staring at him. He tried a click, which reached far enough to speak of the familiar stoat's features.

Bechtel staggered back from Tope's grip, breathing hard. Their last encounter still lay fresh in his mind.

"C'mon, lad," Tope urged, "Get it together! We've already lost Fates-knows how many beasts."

Bechtel's brow quivered. "W-why are you-?"

"Who bloody _cares!_ " A paw extended out. "Get up, stick with me, and I'll get ye out of 'ere alive!"

Bechtel lost sight of the paw as the din swept the echoes aside once more. He continued to stare as a single thought managed to break through—the tunnels leading to the great, iron door of the arena. Molly, patting his shoulder and offering final words of encouragement. Her final statement.

" _You are not alone, Bechtel. Even if they don't wear the skin and fur you'd expect, you have friends among these walls."_

He heard Tope snort and turn away.

"Wait!" Bechtel shouted, leaping to his feet. "I… I can't do this on my own, and—"

"All right, all right," Tope said, grabbing his good wing and pulling him along. "Time's a waistin'!"

~.~.~.~

Tope yanked the wing back, pulling the bat out of the thick of the battle. He couldn't save the volemaid in the gray dress. He couldn't save the weasel with a lazy left eye. The bat would not die as long as he stood on that field.

"Watch my back!" he ordered as he took several steps back to look at the volunteers.

"No!" the bat called back. "Stay in the middle! There are traps near the sides!"

"Aye," Tope replied, grateful for the insight. He briefly wondered how the bat knew before shifting his focus to a pine marten swinging a spiked mace back and forth at the rest of the slaves. Blood speckled the volunteer from head to tail, adding more to his fur as he brought the mace crashing down on a mouse's shoulder. Tope snarled at the delight in the marten's eyes, the grin on the beast's face and the feral shouts of triumph at the violence he caused.

"Look out!" the bat shouted as he pulled Tope back and out of the way of the thrust of a javelin.

The stoat stepped back, pushing his charge back as well, taking a half-second to keep the marten in view. The fox before him hid behind a buckler as he thrust his short spear forward in a series of quick jabs, driving the two out of the center of the arena. Tope stepped to the left and the fox shifted, thrusting his spear to keep the two retreating.

"Go for his feet!" Tope shouted, grunting as the spear tip pierced his left arm.

"Al-alright!" Bechtel stepped forward.

Tope saw the fox shift his eyes to the bat for just a moment. Reaching forward, Tope grabbed the tip of the spear with his right paw and pulled forward, feeling the blade cut into his palm as he reached for the shaft with his left. The fox took an involuntary step forward and smashed his buckler into Tope's side. His right paw released the spear and he tried to grab the shield instead, but the blood made it difficult to get a grip. With a growl, he heaved on the spear and pulled the fox off balance. The bat darted forward and wrenched the shield away.

Gasping as Tope kicked him in the gut, the beast released his grip on the spear and fell to the blood-spattered snow. Fear clouded the volunteer's eyes as the two slaves stood over him. Knowing he had a worse beast to deal with, Tope kicked the fox in the head and ran toward where the marten was bludgeoning a squirrelmaid in the leg as she screamed in horror.

"Grab the shield," Tope called to the bat as he snatched the spear from the ground.

"I-I can't," the bat said, wingtips prodding awkwardly at the shield's rim.

Tope gritted his teeth, casting a glance toward where the marten was bludgeoning a screaming squirrelmaid. "Here," he said, rushing over to the bat. Snatching up the shield, he secured the strap around the bat's wingtip, tight enough so that it couldn't be pulled off. "That'll do. Now c'mon!"

Spear in paw, Tope sprinted toward the fray. The marten turned as he saw the stoat bearing down on him, ignoring his former prey. Both raised their weapons as the gap between them closed.

Tope's left arm stung as he lifted the spear, and his hand spasmed as the mace crashed down upon his lighter weapon. Gripping the shaft even more tightly, he jumped back to avoid a backhanded swing. Snarling, he stepped away from another wild swing before leaning forward and thrusting the spear into the volunteer's arm, eliciting a howl that echoed across the battlefield.

As Tope reached to grasp the mace, the marten leaped forward and sunk his teeth into Tope's right shoulder. Simultaneously surprised, disgusted, and in pain, he hesitated for a half-second before taking the marten's throat in his claws and squeezing. Unable to breathe, the beast opened his jaws and pushed against the stoat. Tope pushed, the combined momentum throwing the marten to the ground. He shifted the spear in his paws, and drove the blade into the beast's chest. Pulling the spear out, he tossed it on the ground and picked up the mace.

Ensuring the monster would rise no more, he smashed the spiked mace into the face of the marten, blood splashing both stoat and snow.

Tope ignored the cheers that erupted from the audience and quickly pried the mace free. Turning back toward the bat, he asked, "Did ye finish off the fox?"

Before the bat could reply, a sea otter in a blue coat rushed toward them. Tope raised his weapon to fend him off when he saw a fox and a rat running in his direction as well.

"What's going on?" the bat asked.

Tope stepped in front of the winged beast, determined to keep him alive. A moment later he saw a rope flash in front of his vision and he felt it tighten around his neck. Gasping, he reached up to grab at the rope, but the bluecoats grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him across the snowy field, away from the battle. He thrashed and clawed at the beasts, but the noose stayed tight around his neck.

He caught a glimpse of the bat, staring with fearful eyes as he was taken out of the Arena.

 _Stay alive,_ he begged.

 _You couldn't save them..._

 _Please stay alive._

~.~.~.~

 _Everybeast here is insane! The world has gone mad!_

Ander's mind reeled as he pressed himself flat against the side wall of the arena, chest heaving and ears flicking as he racked his mind for a desperate plan of action.

"Aah-"

A sea of fresh rat blood came squirting up in a fountain, peppering his fur.

Cheers rang up from the crowd.

 _What are they thinking? Why are they actually doing this?!_

The weasel forced himself to move sideways, though every hopskipping step was a danger to his entire body. He was pumped so full of adrenaline that his arms and legs felt just as sturdy as noodles.

 _I think I'm going to be sick!_

This was the first time in the vermin's life that he did _not_ want to be the center of attention.

Ander caught a breath, tenderly creeping around the outside circle of the fighting when a burning white glimmer caught his eye.

It made him flinch. It was like sunlight...reflecting off of metal. _Sharp_ metal.

"The weapons!" he gasped, heart thrumming with a new hope. He had focused so much on getting away from the heat of the war that he had forgotten completely about the weapons!

Abandoning plans and sensibility, Ander launched himself headlong into the scrape.

He lashed out to and fro, swatting and kicking his weatherbeaten path through foebeast after foebeast. That was when he noticed that there was another creature heading for the last sword, a vermin like himself.

Ander's heart jumped into his mouth and with it he jumped onto the sword.

 _Clang!_

"It is mine, mine, mine, all mine!" he cried, raising his voice in raucous joy.

Paws grabbing, he rolled over in the sand and gave the blade a giant smooch right on his reflection, laughing blissfully with tears in his eyes.

When the other creature's shadow neared, the weasel scrabbled to his footpaws.

 _Oh, no. No,_ no...

He stared, jaws gaping, into the menacing eyes of a giant fox decked in tattoos from ears to tail.

There hung no collar around the canine's neck. The fox was clearly here for the sport, and worst of all, he was armed...with both a cutlass and a club.

Ander gave the air a couple feeble slashes with his sword.

"You, you get back from me, do you hear?" he raised his voice to drown his stammer. "I am the Prince of Weasels! Only a complete idiot would dare lay a claw on me!"

The fox snarled and came raining down on Ander in a hurricane of furious assault.

First, he overpowered him with his own blade and size and sent the weasel smashing down on his back, and then proceeded to go at him with the sword as if he were dicing fish.

Ander screamed. He flicked his wrist in many a frantic attempt to keep the fox's maneuvers from breaking flesh, but they did not always prove profitable.

As soon as he saw his chance, he made a snakelike dive under the fox's legs and jumped up and ran for it again, hugging his newly acquired sword to his chest.

Battling and chaos resumed in his wake.

 _I think I've lost him._

The weasel panted.

 _Yes. There are no signs of the dog anywhere._

He slunk up to the wall again, gasping for breath.

 _Calm down, Ander. You're fine again._

Pawsteps pittered behind him.

The weasel blew out a puff of cold air. He was bleeding from his snout and chest and back, and his coat was ripped and scuffed.

 _I'm alive. I can mend it._

"Think you can run, hide? Outfox the fox? Gimme your weapon and I may just let you live."

Ander blanched.

 _Him._

Straightening, he drew his sword, locking his defiant brown eyes with the fox's blue ones.

"The only way I will give you this blade is stuck through your ribs, or else you'll have to pry it from my dead, rotting paws!"

Ander leapt, and swords clashed.

~.~.~.~

Dragged by the vest-wearing rogues, Tope fell from the reach of the bat's echoes, swallowed into the whirling noise that ruled the battlefield. Bechtel fought the tremor of fear that trickled down his spine. Fear at the absence of Tope's unwavering determination. Fear at the brutality of the stoat's bludgeoning of the marten.

Bechtel bit at the fear with a snarl, staring down at the marten's corpse spilled upon the snow. _He deserved it. They all deserve it._

He heard approaching footsteps. Before he could speak, something heavy slammed into him and threatened to send him to the ground. His heels dug deep into the sands for purchase as a pair of paws latched around his shield. Hot, frantic breath struck his snout, and a gasp spoke of a wild-eyed, collared hedgehog, face bleeding from a deep wound.

"Give me that!" the hedgehog screamed, pulling at the shield tied to Bechtel's limb. "I need it more than you!"

The far-larger hedgehog yanked the bat further and further with every tug. "Stop pulling and let me—" The rest of the words caught in Bechtel's throat before he could even suggest a truce. The echoes told him of the arena walls, nearing by the second.

"W-wait!" Bechtel screamed, struggling to pull himself from the hedgehog's grasp. "Stop! There are traps near—"

The hedgehog's heel struck wood with a deafening certainty. Sand sprayed out as the trapdoor flicked open and gravity beckoned them under. Bechtel flapped his free wing, striking the hedgehog's bloodied snout. A scream followed claws scraping against iron, then the weight fell from Bechtel.

Bechtel shot into the air as he heard the sickening crush of flesh. He gasped at the cold wind, the pain in his wing flaring against the roar of the crowd. He half-glided, half-fell to the sands, crashing onto his side. The rage of the beasts in the Crucible surrounded him once more.

 _He was one of us,_ he thought. _Just scared, and trying to survive, and I—_

" _Move!"_ Molly's voice, in the training grounds when he tried to take a breather. _"A still beast is a dead beast!"_

Bechtel shoved himself to his feet and sent out a series of sharp clicks, running in whatever direction seemed most promising. The echoes didn't reach far, but they told him enough of the battlefield around him: bodies bloodied and broken upon the sands, pawfuls of survivors still fleeing across the arena, the volunteers prowling towards those who couldn't run fast enough.

 _It ends when there are only ten beasts left,_ Bechtel reminded himself with some measure of disgust. Surely that can't be much longer…

 _Bechtel, stop,_ a weak echo said, fingertips of sound brushing his fur. _Look. You know that beast._

Bechtel's run halted as he heeded the echoes' call. He recognized the twisted snarl of the fox volunteer from earlier. The blow Tope had given him only seemed to further enrage the beast, and he now directed his ire upon a weasel slave who had somehow come upon a blade.

Bechtel stiffened when he realized the echoes spoke not of the volunteer, but of the slave. Ander's showy frock lay a crumpled insult to its former mediocrity. Scrapes and cuts scored the weasel's body, but he was very much alive. And very much in danger.

The volunteer suddenly pounced, and in a quick series of metallic strikes, Ander's blade struck the sands several feet away. Ander fell upon his rump, clutching his sword paw tightly.

 _The weasel deserves it._

Bechtel remained still. The tattooed fox advanced, grip flexing around the club in his paw.

… _but not as much as the other does._

Bechtel sprinted forward over the strewn dead, braced himself for what was surely a foolish decision, and slammed his shoulder into the fox. The volunteer struck the sands in a roll, coming to a stop several feet away.

"On your feet!" Bechtel snapped, holding a wingtip out for Ander.

The weasel swatted it aside. "Fool!" he snarled, pushing himself up. "I had that perfectly under control!"

Heat rose alongside regret in Bechtel's chest. "I just saved your life!"

"And what about my dignity?" Ander recovered his sword, then swung it in a wide gesture. "Look at it! Tattered ruins, scattered to the wind thanks to you!"

Bechtel sucked in a breath for a sharply-worded reply when a tendril of sound reached him. Not of an echo - or even of footsteps - but words, shouted by the audience.

"Cull! Cull! Cull! Only the strong survive!"

A click told Bechtel of the fox, pacing towards him. Another spoke of four other volunteers closing in on the pair, surrounding them from all sides. His loudest, most shrill click spoke only in whispers of two other volunteers hunting down the renaming, scattered slaves.

" _Only ten of you will walk out from that arena."_

"Cull! Cull! Cull! The hour has arrived!

Bechtel stepped back until he pressed against Ander's back.

"This is all your fault," the weasel grumbled, resetting his grip on his sword.

"Cull! Cull! Cull! We've come to see you die!"

"This makes us even," Bechtel bit back.

The fox signaled for his fellow volunteers to stop. He spat on his paws, rubbed them together, then hefted his club and stepped towards the pair.

Bechtel's entire body tensed. He was going to die. He knew there would be no overcoming the fox's skill, much less the other four encircling them. Not even a year of Molly's training could have taught him that.

He missed that cottage home languid by the Moss. He missed the gardenias that guided his uneven steps towards the cherry orchard. He missed the parchments, and their stories, and the storyteller whose unassuming face held the wrinkles of many smiles.

He wondered yet once more how it all went so wrong.

 _I'm sorry, Atrus. I'm sorry about everything._

The fox took another step. Somewhere beyond, a scream, then quickly silenced.

Once more, the world shattered.

The crash of a horn sounded over the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. Bechtel clutched at his skull and fell to the ground, willing for the pounding in his head to cease.

"Maidens and gentlebeasts!" Cain's voice pierced out through even the reigning chaos. "I give you: your survivors!"

Bechtel's head shot up. He tried several clicks against the waves of sound. The images were distorted and half-broken, but he saw the volunteers turning around. Leaving.

He tried again to be sure, and this time saw the fox step closer.

"You got lucky, bat." The fox chuckled, shouldering his bloodied club. "Next time? There won't be a Cain to save you."

The fox turned and left, though his words lingered long afterwards. Bechtel sat motionless, save for the clenching of his clawtips into the sand. For the first time, he truly understood that there would be a next time. He understood what it meant to survive.

He and Molly had much training to do.

~.~.~.~

The audience stood up to their footpaws in unison and the clamoring of the crowd rose in cadence. With a huge grin on his face, Ansley clapped his paws together.

Laurence sat rooted in his seat, eyes wide and locked on the bloodletting before him. Pools of blood streamed from the lifeless corpses and coalesced into one at the center of the battlefield. Forty indentured slaves walked in. Only ten walked out.

A flurry of emotions and thoughts danced in Laurence's mind. He acted upon none of them, and his increasing delay only incensed his brittle conscience.

The otter pressed upon the cane and brought himself to his full height. He needed to get away from here. He could not stomach the atrocities any longer.

Laurence moved like a phantom, unseen by the crowd and accompanied by an intense feeling of disorientation. The rippling cheers steadied behind him as the ten surviving slaves were escorted away.

The sunlight from outside faded with every step further into the tunnel, away from the arena. Not a single soul marked his disappearance from the stands.

 **[End of Round One]**


	10. Under the Bridge

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Under the Bridge**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

 _They lied to me. They all lied to me._ Laurence kept his weight on the cane to keep himself on his footpaws. From the moment he left the arena, he began to feel queasy. _I've been tricked, I've been misled._

This whole time, Marshank had been harboring enslavement. All under the guise of honor, glory and entertainment. Nobeast wanted to open up. Nobeast discussed it. They all swept that ugly truth under the rug like it was not a big deal.

Back in Helmsford, his homeland, there would be annual fighting tournaments in his town to look forward to. Laurence was raised to appreciate and respect the art of combat. For a nation always in the midst of a war, it reminded beasts of the honor and passion found in battle. But The Culling? The Culling was a bastardization, a shadow, of all those youthful fighting tourneys and swordplay matches.

The mercenary was back in the Windy Bastion dormitories. He sought refuge in his assigned alcove, where only a plain bed and weapon rack awaited him. Laurence rested his trembling body against the cot, and reflected on the terrible situation he found himself in.

 _Just what would my mother think of me? And my brothers? What would they say, if they saw me here in this place?_ Hot tears cascaded down his cheeks at the unbearable thought. _They would disown me. All of them would._

The events of The Culling replayed in Laurence's mind over and over again. Crying, wailing, shrieking, dying. _Why didn't I do anything? Why didn't I do anything._ The same question repeated over and over, drowning all others that beckoned his mind.

 _I saw the entire event take place right before me. And all I did was sit back and watch the show! I'm no better than Cain, or Ansley, or anybeast else in that crowd._ A sob escaped from his lips and Laurence responded by covering his face with a pillow.

 _There's nothing I can do for this place. This problem is bigger than me. It's bigger than any single creature._ The sound of laughter snapped the mercenary from somber musing.

Peeking over the thin, mobile canvas obscuring his living quarters, Laurence could see a pair of his roommates appearing. Iwan the fox was plastered in a wave of blood from ears to footpaws. He was eagerly recounting a moment from The Culling.

"An' then I took my knife and threw it! I couldn't believe it when I actually got somebeast wid it!" explained Iwan. Still-fresh blood speckled thewallas he reenacted the motion of throwing the dagger. "Got some lass in th' face. Didn't kill 'er, but it gave me time t' finish 'er off!"

The pair of bloodied volunteers were so busy talking, they didn't see Laurence until he was right behind them. The first volunteer was knocked out from a single punch. Iwan's lightning-fast reflexes saved him from a mighty blow aimed at his head.

"What's wrong with you, eh? Have you gone mad?" said the fox. He raised a knife to defend himself from any further attack.

"You killed innocents! All of those creatures were slaves!" roared Laurence, body shaking with unhinged ire. "And you killed them without a second thought!"

"Hey now... It's not my fault they got captured an' brought here. I'm jus' doing what I get told t' do. Besides, it serves 'em right fer gettin' caught," said Iwan with a shrug. Laurence resisted the overwhelming desire to attack the fox a second time, and instead ran out the hallway.

Where he was going? The mercenary didn't know. But he could stay there any longer. He would have tried to slay both of the murderers.

 _Plunk, plunk, plunk._ His cane and his footpaws led Laurence to the winding stairwell with a hole in the side of the wall. Huge drifts of snow had started to pile up, and Laurence needed to watch his step so he wouldn't fall on his face.

Sondern was still missing. The only friend to see him through, ever since the beginning. According to Ansley, the monsters of the Crucible were making 'modifications'. What did that even mean? Were they destroying it and reforging a new blade? Laurence hoped for Cain's sake that they weren't.

 _Cain Seftis._ Laurence knew that the wildcat was the source of all the misery and death here in the Crucible, he was orchestrating the entire thing from afar. The mercenary now knew where he was headed. He would pay a visit to the office of Cain.

The otter tried to imagine what his plan would be; would he try and reach a diplomatic solution with the Lord of the Crucible? Perhaps filling the wildcat's stomach full of sword would make Laurence feel better about the horrors he saw. Revenge was always a great way to make one forget all about their loss. That one was a lesson from Father, before he took a nasty spill down a flight of stairs and forgot who he was.

No. Laurence would not stoop to the same level as these savages, he resolved, while hobbling toward the plain wooden door before him. He tried to walk past the trio of sentries guarding it, but the ringleader addressed him before Laurence could get by.

"What do you think you're doing, otter? State your business." The speaker was a blue-vested female squirrel. She had been beautiful, once, but a scar slit across her cheek stymied her appearance.

"I'm here to speak with Cain. It is very urgent that the two of us speak-"

"Lord Cain is no longer here at Marshank. His current whereabouts are none of your concern." She cocked her head to the side. "You look very familiar, otter. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Laurence vehemently shook his head. "No, you don't. How long will Cain be gone?"

"Now I remember- You're the Frostfang! I should thank you for your impressive victory. Thanks to you, I _should_ be ten silver richer." She gave a vicious glare to the timid weasel standing behind her and he flinched.

"Half o' Marshank had their money on the Mauler. I wonder how much coinage coulda been gained from bettin' on the Frostfang instead-"

"That's not who I am." Laurence turned to leave and ignore any further diatribe from the sentries. They probably weren't at liberty to tell him how long Cain would be gone.

Once again his footpaws were on the move. And this time, he knew exactly where he was going- to the nearest exit right out the Crucible.

 _They were betting on my fight. This enslavement indoctrination that the Crucible has, it goes far beyond the Crucible. This is a problem entrenched within the establishment. This isn't just the Crucible- this problem involves all of Marshank._

Another turn down a hallway and more stairs, and eventually Laurence found himself back in the main entrance hall.

 _If I stay here, this place could change me. It's not too late for me to leave._

By this time, many of the guards who had left to go see The Culling an hour earlier were back, and lining up in their places. _No. No, not that way._ The otter looked around in every direction for another way. He figured that if he tried walking out the front door, some of the bluejackets would try and stop him- then he would have lost his only chance of leaving this place.

In the corner of the room, a party of slaves and contractors. They were busily working on the enormous hole that Laurence had seen just days earlier. A great idea, but in this hall there were too many wandering eyes. He figured there must be another way.

"Fates. Show me the way." whispered Laurence. A sudden epiphany hit him after a moment of reflection. The stairwell Higgs showed him, there was another giant hole there. If he waited only a couple more hours until nightfall, there wouldn't be anybeast to stop him from leaving.

The otter watched from an open window. Moments after the sun was completely gone from sight, he bustled over to the room with the spiraling staircase and clambered as fast as he could to the top.

 _More guards. By the blood._ Laurence figured he need only wait a few more moments and eventually they might make the rounds. When they didn't budge after a few minutes, Laurence used the snow drifts on the stairs and formed a snowball to throw over their heads and into another room nearby. Both of the sentries scurried away to find the source of the sound.

Now with his chance presented to him, the otter darted through the open hole in the wall. A scaffolding was perched outside. He nearly slipped and fell to an early demise on the forming ice upon the wood planks.

Laurence was high up- he could see nearly all of Marshank from his position. The winds were loud and persistent here. Darkness enveloped the landscape like a thick fog. Torches lined the lower walls of the Crucible.

Escape was imminent now. If he used the rope in his pack against one of the wooden support beams, Laurence would be able to reach the ground below.

 _I can disappear, just like I've done before. Nobeast will ever know where I went._

Overwrought, his paws fumbled as he tied a thick knot in the beams.

 _Somebeast needs to do something. Those slaves are being held here against their will._

Breathless, Laurence tugged on the rope to make sure it was tight enough to support his weight.

 _No. There's nothing I can do for them. It's too late for them, but it's not too late for me._

The otter stood to his footpaws. He looked down below at the tranquil scene. All of his instincts were warning him to leave, run away and never look back. But his conscience gnawed at him from within.

 _Those ten survivors of The Culling- they might've avoided their deaths today. But they will die in the Crucible. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the following week. But someday. And it won't be on their own terms._

Laurence's thoughts flickered to last week, when the strange creature in the medical wing verbally attacked him. The _collar on its neck, it was the same as those slaves in The Culling. He must have been trying to warn me about this place!_ The fur on the back of Laurence's neck stood up at the epiphany.

He turned and looked up at the Crucible. Impassive, unmoved, all-encompassing. Nobeast was going to help those lost souls. But Laurence could. _And I will._

~.~.~.~

Deep within the suffocating stone halls of Marshank, the Drag was cold, dark and rank.

Gromo the rat guard was on sentry duty. He carefully curled his claws around the end of his blue vest and encircled his form as best he could. Once again, he'd received the short end of the stick. He was stuck covering a double shift when his replacement had conveniently fallen under the weather. It was miserable work, but somebeast had to do it. And that beast -by way of blackmail- was Gromo.

After a few more beats, the massive rat straightened his hunched form and began a routine march down the hallway. Only a few steps into his walk, the rat heard noise from behind.

The hulking rat had no time to react before a blow landed on the side of his neck. He raised a paw to the offended spot only to find strong arms wrapped around. Gromo did not bother with struggling, he knew it was of no use. He embraced the darkness overcoming him.

Laurence let the rat's unconscious form fall gently to the floor. He snatched the ringed keys tucked in the guard's satchel and took in the surroundings.

In front of the mercenary was a metal-barred door, and beyond that was a hallway lined from end-to-end with cells.

He looked back down at the guard and raised his footpaw over the sentry's neck. _Not here. Not this time. Way too messy and loud. Not enough time._

Laurence flicked through each key and tried them on the locked door. Only after trying all the others, he used the last key that did the trick.

Laurence kicked open the door and shot down the hallway, quick as his footpaws would let him. He stopped before the first cell on the left. Four creatures were sleeping inside; one in a makeshift cot and the others on the cold stone floor.

Once again, the otter went through the same song and dance, switching between keys before settling on the correct one. As he opened the cell door wide three of the prisoners came awake, facing the otter with wide eyes.

"You're free. All of you! You're free to leave," said Laurence, paws outstretched. "Escape, while you have the chance!"

The three prisoners said nothing. The fourth one, a ferret, did not rouse from sleep. Laurence repeated the statement again. Still nothing.

Finally, one of them stood their footpaws. A small hedgehog slowly approached the otter out of the cell. He grew close to Laurence, so uncomfortably close. The prisoner's gaze was fixed on the exposed neck.

Without warning, he slammed a fist into his stomach. Laurence was bent over double, trying to catch his breath again. He looked up in time to see another fist connect with his snout, the raw force knocking him to the ground.

Laurence instinctively raised both paws to protect his face from further harm while the two attackers began to kick him relentlessly.

He felt a kick slam into his injured leg and once again the knee was falling into a thousand pieces. The slash of claws, and the flesh on his paw became exposed.

"What is the meaning of this!" roared a gravelly voice. Everybeast turned to see the speaker. It was the ferret that had been sleeping in the cot. "All of you get back in your cell. Now."

All three slaves swiftly returned to their cell without another word. Body aching all over, Laurence feebly tried to pick himself up from the ground. A distinct sound of pawsteps approaching caused the otter to flinch. With his good paw, the ferret picked up Laurence by the jacket collar and slammed him against the wall.

"What are you supposed to be. A citizen looking for a thrill? Some thief who took a wrong turn? A volunteer with a moment of compunction?" When Laurence didn't respond, the ferret slammed him against the stone wall a second time. " _Answer me._ "

"I'm-I'm a v-volunteer. I was trying to help you escape from here-"

The callused claws around Laurence's throat tightened. "Do we look like we need saving to you?"

Tears welledup in the otter's eyes. This was not how the breakout was supposed to go. "Look, I don't think- You don't understand- I was trying to- I was trying-"

Something akin to a hypnic jerk emanated from the ferret. His voice railroaded over the otter's with ease, "Evidently, you don't think at all. Just blindly follow whatever that conscience of yours tells you to do. A creature of impulse does not subsist here."

Laurence finally found the courage to look the prisoner in the eyes. Neither of them spoke for some time. The sounds of whispering from another cell was the only objection to the inordinate silence.

"Go home, volunteer. This place has no need for whelps." As he spoke the ferret loosened his grip, and Laurence collapsed to the ground in a heap.

The prisoner picked up the keys from the ground and placed them inside a pocket of the otter's jacket. Laurence watched from his peripherals in stunned fascination as the ferret closed the door behind him.

Despite his better instincts, he looked up and was granted a good look at the interrogator's appearance- tall and covered in black fur, with streaks of gray in between. A torn surcoat matching the fur with a dark tattered cloak almost reaching the ground. The left arm was resting in what looked to be a hastily made sling. But the single observation that chilled Laurence right into the bones: atop the ferret's skull, a silver crown painfully sown into place.

Laurence felt the life come back to him when the sable-eyed gaze looked once more in his direction. He scrambled to his footpaws and lurched toward the exit. His body bellowed with every leaden step. Every ounce of resilience was utilized to get through the raised heavy metal door and close it.

~.~.~.~

Bleeding, bushed, and blue, the walk from the Drag to the dormitories lasted until morning's light filtered through the cracks and holes of the Crucible. He received odd looks from the early risers and sentries making the rounds, but nobeast said anything.

The otter barely stifled a moan as he raised a paw to open the dormitory door. Inside, Laurence could see all the other volunteers, still fast asleep. Dreaming of Fates-knows-what. Perhaps they dreamt of their former lives before becoming a volunteer in the binding servitude of this place. Or maybe they were blissfully reliving one of their participations in The Culling. There was no way for Laurence to know for sure.

Laurence stood completely still, boring holes into the closest sleeping creature. He could slit the throats of every wrongdoer present. Before the thought could turn into action, he continued on past the sleeping beasts to his bed.

The welcoming sight of his bed brought him to a halt. Atop the clean sheets was a green envelope with _'Frostfang Copeland'_ stenciled on the outside. The contents revealed a short, handwritten letter:

 _Frostfang Copeland,_

 _Congratulations! You have been invited to an exclusive feast, taking place on the evening two days from now! Our reason for such a grand celebration, you ask? To honor the brave survivors of The Culling, of course!_

 _Be sure to dress in your nicest attire, and please leave weapons of any kind in your rooms!_

 _Signed,  
Hale Seftis, Acting Regent of the Crucible, Administrative Director_

 _P.S., you are contractually obliged to make an appearance._

Unwrapping the cloth, Laurence's breath hitched at the contents. It was Sondern.

The family sword looked to be in one piece, but either dipped or coated in a frosty blue color. Laurence realized the smiths had fashioned the weapon to match a giant icicle. If one stared long enough you could make out the shape of the original blade within.

And what infuriated the mercenary more than anything else? Only the end was sharp enough to inflict damage. Laurence could do nothing but fume at the foregone decision. Now, Sondern was no better than a glorified rapier.

"Oh, Sondern. What have they done." whispered Laurence with tears in his eyes. "I can barely recognize you."

Laurence sat upon the bed, gently lifting the sword into his paws. "Shh, shh, it's okay. I'm here now. I'm here." He stroked a paw across the altered edge of the blade. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too." He drew in a ragged breath and held the blade tighter. "I don't know what to do. This place isn't what I... it's not... it's just evil. I never should have come here..."

He winced. "No. No, I'm just as bad as everybeast here. Sondern, I killed a beast inside that arena. That's why they changed you. I can't even tell you if that creature was a slave or not. I didn't even stop to check. I didn't care."

His tears struck the iridescent blue of his sword.

"It's all my fault. There were so many warning signs, I just didn't pay attention. I never pay attention. So many signs right in front of me, and I missed them all." Laurence brought the sword away from him. And leaned it against the pillows. "No. I can't change. Not like you did. I can't let this place change me." He pushed the weapon further away. "I can't let them do to me what they did to you... I should've ran when I had the chance."

Memories of all the loving faces from his past flashed before his eyes. Laurence made the same mistakes, over and over again. "I don't know what to do."

He watched the blade slowly slide off the bed. While grabbing the hilt of Sondern, once more the otter observed the weapon within. Sondern was not truly changed. The blade was still there.

Laurence himself would need to change, if he ever hoped to survive.


	11. No Colors Any More

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **No Colors Any More**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

"This is not my cell."

"It's where yer sleepin' t'night."

"But my-"

The rat shoved Tope through the cell door and he felt his wounds stretch as he hissed in pain and tried not to stumble. He felt something soft hit him, and as the door shut and locked behind him, he reached down and picked up the rough blanket off of the floor.

The change of clothes he'd been given after the Culling - a simple brown tunic and black cotton pants - were not up to the task of keeping the cold away, and he immediately wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He stepped stiffly past the cell's other four occupants toward an empty patch of straw. Leaning his back against the cold stone wall, he slowly slid to the floor. The bandage on his left arm felt wet and he was certain the wound had re-opened, but he remained still. Perhaps this was part of the payment Fate had chosen to extract in exchange for his violence.

In spite of his wounds, and in spite of his uncertain standing, he supposed he should be grateful. Fate left him alive, and at the rushed and dour dinner, he was pleased to see the bat still alive. His actions had counted for something and a sliver of pride eked through his weariness. Amid bites of bread and broth, he contemplated how many stones he would be able to add to the white bag.

Unable to reach his stones, he held the number nine in his head. _Nine white stones._ His eyes drooped. _Nine._ The cold wall became a passing thought as his head drifted forward.

A cool paw caressed his cheek.

 _That would feel good on my arm,_ Tope mused.

"What kind of fish are you?" a quiet voice asked him.

Tope looked up and saw a figure dressed in a black dress, light illuminating her bright white fur. "What?"

"How will you swim the depths of this lake?  
How will you choose what measures to take?  
Are you a shark, with rows of teeth,  
Seeking blood in the depths beneath?  
An eel that hides beneath the sand,  
Leaving death to those that stand?  
A pet to be treasured, trained to perform,  
Loving its master, pleased to conform?  
The water is stirring as you will soon see,  
But will you be the beast you thought you would be?"

She whispered gently, " _You're free_." Tope searched for the meaning behind her words when she stumbled, grunting as if she'd been struck. She fell to the ground and cried out, her voice growing louder and lower.

His eyes opened and the sounds of a beating continued. Desperate to see who would challenge Fate, he threw the blanket off and stood up, grunting as pain flared in his right paw. He stepped up to the front of the cage and peered through the metal bars at the door of the open cell closest to the exit. In the dark, he couldn't tell which beasts were doing what, but before long he heard indistinct words coming from a beast looming tall over the others. He couldn't hear what was being said and wondered why no guards had appeared when the silhouette of an otter walked out of the cell and the door was shut by the tall beast.

His eyes widened in surprise as he watched the otter exit through the open door. In the faint light of the hallway, Tope saw the fine clothing the beast wore - a long, black leather tunic over a dark shirt - not the standard uniform of the guards.

 _Who was that?_ Tope wondered, _and what just happened?_

 _Another fish, swimming through this sea..._

With nothing left to see, Tope picked up his blanket and sat back down in the straw, leaning his back against the cold wall. As he shut his eyes, he made a note to keep an eye out for the otter.

~.~.~.~

Keys jingled. They jingled again and Tope's eyes opened in time to see a fox point at him. "Come with me, Stoat."

Tope gingerly rose, shaking his head to clear away the dreams of fish and free beasts. "Where...?"

"There's a special job for you. Not sure what you did to deserve it, after your performance yesterday." He waited for Tope to leave the cell before closing the door and locking it once more. They walked in silence, soon passing by the kitchens. Tope smelled the faint smoke of freshly stoked fires, hinting that he was up even before the cooks.

The fox led him down an unfamiliar path, winding deeper across the sands until reaching a dimly lit tunnel. As they approached the metal door at the end, Tope could hear scratching and scraping and strange whines and groans coming from the other side: unnatural sounds from unnatural things. Thoughts of returning to sleep were chased from his mind as the door was unlocked and he was pushed through.

"Wh-what am I doin' here?" he asked.

"You'll be feeding the monsters."

He led Tope over toward a cart that held a variety of different food. Portioned out onto labeled plates - the first covered with a lid - were some fruits and vegetables that were old enough to start rotting, but primarily strips of raw red meat and fish that occasionally bled onto the cart. Upper lip raised in disgust, Tope almost didn't want to know what kind of creatures he would be feeding.

After confirming that Tope could read the numbers assigned to the plates, he instructed, "You'll start with this plate and work your way around the room, cage by cage." His eyes darted between the tightly sealed doors. "Open the slots in the front and toss it in, and make sure those slots are shut tight when you're done. Don't stick your paws inside unless you want to lose them." He then walked briskly back toward the main door and stepped through. "I'll be back in an hour to get you."

Without a chance to ask any questions, Tope watched the door shut behind him and heard the click of a lock on the other side. Fur standing up on his neck, he slowly pushed the cart toward the first cage. The scratching of claws on stone and metal grew in volume as the creatures heard their breakfast approach. Reaching the first door, he extended a trembling paw toward the latch of the feeding slot and stood to the side as he quickly pulled it open. Waiting for a claw to flash out or a maw of teeth to appear in the opening, he wondered what was on the other side. After a few seconds, when nothing appeared, he was left wondering if the monster inside was sleeping, dead, or simply waiting patiently to strike.

Tope lifted the lid off of the first plate and was surprised to find a small key waiting for him. His first thought was that Fate might have brought him some form of escape, but that didn't seem right.

"That won't be necessary," came a voice from inside the cage.

Tope's throat made a strange noise and he jumped back, the key dropping to the floor. Unsure what kind of beast was on the other side, he retrieved the key and asked, "Who in this Fate-forsaken place are you?"

The door swung open and Tope saw a tall wildcat with silver-gray fur wearing a long forest-green coat, standing a full head taller than he. "We haven't been properly introduced, have we?" His voice was clear and smooth, his tone that of a beast accustomed to being listened to. "Administrator Hale Seftis, second in command to Lord Cain."

Tope took note of the fact that Hale had not extended a paw in welcome. "I'm assumin' if yer here alone, you know who I am."

"By now half of Marshank knows who you are, if not by name, Tope Benwrath."

Hale gave the cart a small shove in the direction of the next cage, a less than subtle hint that the cat was not here to assist a slave in his labor. Curious what would bring the administrator down, he found a small amount of comfort in knowing that this was not one of Whip's beasts sent to monitor him. He kept his mouth shut, though, unsure where a careless word would land him with Cain's right-paw.

"I've noticed the... special attention that our resident Captain has directed toward you, and naturally I wondered why that walking sack of hot air would find you so interesting."

Tope opened his mouth to laugh at Hale's assessment of Whip, but thought better of it. Instead, he opened the small sliding door on the second cage and jumped back as a thin, hairy, black leg poked out of the opening. Hale laughed as Tope reached for the second plate.

"Imagine my surprise when I find you're not the only Benwrath brought to the Crucible." He watched as Tope prodded nervously at the leg to try and get it to pull back before grabbing the second tray of meat and dumping it quickly and unceremoniously into the hole, picking up the bits that slipped to the floor. "Dram was a good fighter, according to the records, though it seems he lacked your... enthusiasm."

 _Say what you came here to say,_ Tope thought to himself. "And he escaped, came back home, and died of the plague," he finished. "If you're wonderin', he didn't tell me how he escaped, nor spoke a bloody word of this place."

"So he never told you how he beat Captain Whip unconscious before leading a dozen slaves out of the Crucible? How he never caved under the bloated rat's taunts and threats? How he acted with honor and dignity and strength, despite the impotent Captain tormenting him?"

Tope stopped before the third cage, imagining his father as a slave in this place. Looking into Hale's emerald green eyes, he wondered if that were true. "He was a broken beast when he came back. Don't sound like 'dignity and strength' t' me."

"The plague broke the spirits of many a beast." Shifting his weight, he continued, "But I am not here to talk about your father."

Tope opened the slot in the fourth cage and something thudded against the door. Quickly, he grabbed the next plate and tossed it in before sliding the metal cover back into place. "What do you want from me?"

"Right now, the benefit of the doubt." He flicked a piece of dust off of his coat and continued. "I have been here long enough to see Marshank grow and expand, and the Crucible grow fat off of the adulation of its adoring fans. I've seen beasts with such promise cut down for the sake of giving the people a good show, and more blood spilled than the arena can hold. Once, this place was a place for fighters to test their mettle and display their skill and fight for ideals instead of fame. Now..." Hale sighed. "Now, it's nothing more than a market that deals in death."

He stepped around to the other side of the cart and the light from a nearby torch matched the fervor in his eyes. "I seek to restore the honor and dignity that the Crucible once had, to give beasts such as yourself the chance to live and serve a higher purpose than mere entertainment. Certain beasts see only profit in this place, but I see the potential for it to be so much more!

Tope wondered if it was madness that brewed behind Hale's eyes, but his passion felt genuine. Was the beast before him really asking for his help to make the _Crucible_ , for Fate's sake, a better place? Fate would just as easily smile upon him for burning it to the ground, but he had no time to entertain such fantasies. "In this new Crucible of yours, if a beast simply wanted to leave...?"

"One Benwrath already left this place." Hale became suddenly interested in the claws on his left paw. "And as second in command, I've been known to make things happen from time to time."

Tope stopped the cart. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Did you help my father escape?"

"Let's just say I remember those that help me."

 _Would he help you escape?_

Tope kept that thought to himself, uncertain what speaking the words aloud would do. He forced himself to take a breath, and suddenly realized how quickly he'd jumped to that conclusion. There was the minute possibility that the administrator was telling the truth, but it was more likely that Hale was a fisherbeast luring in his next catch. At the same time, he wondered how much information he could get from Hale before the cat caught wise. "And what are you looking for me to do?"

Hale put a paw on Tope's shoulder, claws gripping the fabric of his shirt. "If you decided to work with me, I simply ask that you win your next match, and stay alive."

Tope stepped toward the next cage, pulling away from the official's grip. _Sounds like he's promising something for nothing._ "And you say you have leverage when it comes to this place?"

The wildcat's ears twitched as he stared back at the slave.

"Seein' as ye don't want much from me, I wouldn't ask much of ye." Opening the next feeding slot, he stated, "I simply ask that ye put me up against the most vile beasts in this hell-hole."

He huffed and shook his head. "You looking to court death or the crowd?"

"Fate's a more discerning audience than those beasts who pay for murder. I get nothin' out of killin' a vole who ain't done more wrong than lookin' at a beast's wife the wrong way." When Hale said nothing, Tope continued, "I ain't agreein' to work with ye, but I've no better offer at the moment."

"Since you're asking for a favor, I have one to ask of you."

 _Now he gets to it._

"Sit beside me at the feast tomorrow night."

Tope waited for the rest. When nothing followed, he asked, "You need me to feed you grapes, too?"

Hale chuckled softly. "No. You don't even have to speak if you prefer. You just need to be in the chair to my left when the feast begins. If you can manage that, I'll see what strings I can pull for your next match." Without waiting for a reply, the wildcat turned and walked toward the entrance, pulling a key out of his pocket. "Remember what I said, Benwrath. Stay alive."

As the door closed and the lock closed once more, Tope mulled over Hale's requests, wondering what sort of deception lay within them. Why would the second-in-command converse with a slave, let alone offer to help in some form. He could think of no reason why the administrator would think of trusting him, or why Tope would trust him. _He ain't Whip, which counts for somethin', but I'd still be trading one master for another._

 _~.~.~.~_

The fox brought Tope to the mess hall where beasts picked at their breakfasts or waited in line for a runny porridge mixed with sliced mushrooms, a few onions, and some wilted greens. He thought he caught the faintest whiff of thyme, but doubted that fancy herbs would be wasted on those waiting to die. The guard left and he made his way toward the cookpot, noticing more than a few beasts staring in his direction. One table grew quiet as he passed, and he nearly paused to ask them what he'd interrupted.

"Oh! Go ahead!" a squirrel he didn't recognize in the breakfast line offered, ushering him forward. "I'm sure you're hungry after the Culling yesterday."

Tope remained where he stood. "I'll get my share, same as you."

"Please, I insist!" He stepped around Tope, standing proudly behind him in line. Tope was ready to ignore the gesture when he heard the beast whisper behind him, "I heard you killed one of the volunteers and beat another half to death."

Not wanting to summon the memories of yesterday, he replied, "What's done is done."

Tope could practically feel the beast breathing against his neck as the squirrel continued to whisper, "Everyone I heard from says you're a good fighter, and... and I was w-wondering if you'd be willing to train me."

Sighing, the stoat stepped forward in line. "I've enough t' worry about without gettin' involved with some other beast."

"But I heard you helped other beasts during the Culling. I could really-"

Tope faced the beast, taking note of his black eye, missing right ear, and a patch of skin on his left cheek that looked like the fur had been burned off. A hopeful grin spread across the squirrel's face, displaying a broken tooth. _What did you do to land you in this state?_ he couldn't help but wonder. _Looks like a newt could beat you down._ Wondering what Fate was throwing at him, he stared into the squirrel's eyes and said, "I can't promise anything, but I'll try to help ye as I can."

The beast nodded. "So how do you-?"

"I'm not goin' to be helpin' you this minute, so save your breath."

As he reached forward for a shallow bowl of porridge, a bluejacket standing nearby turned to the server and stated, "You gonna skimp on the Throatcrusher's breakfast?"

"I thought 'e was called the Iron Club," his partner corrected.

"Well, 'e already strangled two beasts, least we know of."

Tope repressed a sigh as the server ladled another scoop onto the plate, forcing him to carry it carefully toward an empty patch of floor while the guards continued to throw out silly monikers for him. "Bloody Angel, seein' as 'e saved that winged rat!... Rage Killer!... Face Stomper!"

He walked to the far side of the room while the two continued to entertain each other with stupid names. Giving him a title only tied him more firmly to the Crucible, bringing him further into the spotlight. He wanted little more than to not be noticed, but judging by the handful of beasts who were coming over to sit with him, Fate had other plans.

"Mind if we sit with you?" the squirrel with the missing ear asked.

 _Go away._ He shrugged and dug into the porridge.

Tope spent the rest of the day primarily annoyed. Between beasts wanting him to reenact his victory over the pine marten, and a few asking him how to fight against a larger opponent or how to handle somebeast biting them, he felt Fate drawing him further into this wretched world. Unwilling to risk her ire, he tried to give a few beasts some pointers, all the while doubting it would help them in the end. He also had to resist shutting up his "fans" as he helped construction workers shovel chunks of rock into wheelbarrows to be carted off, eager to hear his tale of the Culling.

He was almost grateful to be back in his cell when night came, the right one this time. Breathing a sigh of relief, he grabbed the bags from under a small pile of broken stones that he'd covered with straw, counting yesterday's seven stones into the white bag and considering what he'd earned that day.

A guard entered the dark room with a candle and Tope listened as he checked the locks on the cells to make sure they were secure. Accustomed to this routine, he didn't bother looking up until he heard the guard call out, "Cells are secure, hmm."

Looking toward the entryway, he saw a bluejacket head toward the doorway, brown quills peeking out through his uniform. As he walked, Tope watched the hedgehog's uneven gait, his right footpaw lifting slightly higher than the left. As the door to the room closed, he heard a quiet laugh come from the other side before the guard called to the slaves, "Sleep well, hmm."

Tope ran up to the bars of his cell and watched as the light of the guards' candles wandered away, resisting the urge to call the guards back.

 _August... He's here._


	12. He Found the Light

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **He Found the Light**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

The food's rancid odor hit Ander's nose almost as quickly as it sloshed onto his plate.

He stared slack-jawed down at it and then slowly back up at the animal who had served him, nose wrinkled in sickened disgust. Shaking, he pointed accusingly at the substance.

" _What_...what...what in the _heavens_ do you call this?" stammered the weasel through clenched teeth. "I am _appalled_. It...looks like something that was scraped off of the stomach of a dead toad-and the stink! Which one of you _barbarians_ is the beast that calls himself 'cook'?"

The large hare manning the line gestured sulkily to himself.  
"That would be me."

"You should be ashamed," Ander whispered.

"Move along, there's a line," the chef snapped. He gestured with his spoon at the starving faces of the creatures that had assembled behind Ander, some of whom had started sending agitated glares his way.

Ander sniffed, picking up his plate.

 _Fine, fine, let them judge me. They are just jealous that_ I _can stand up for myself._

He maneuvered himself briskly away from the procession, shuffling over to one of the few remaining tables with room left for creatures to sit.

The dish clattered noisily when he slammed it down. Tenderly lifting the fork, his bottom lip quivered

 _This is...so unfair._ The utensil slipped from the weasel's discouraged paw.

Although he fervently longed to tear his eyes off the dish, he found himself unable. Minutes ticked by, and he admitted that he was starving, but it was probably cold now. He could not sensibly continue boycotting his food.

Ander sucked in a deep breath and weightlessly prodded the mixture with a claw, immediately lurching back, a thick blanket of horror stamped across his elegant features.

 _It's keeping itself warm!_

All of the alarms inside his head were going off at once. He had to remove himself from the situation, and _fast._ Ander's eyes darted around the room.

Mice, birds, foxes-no-but wait! Across the hall, freshly leaving the food line, was the bat from the arena!

The weasel rose abruptly and shoved his plate before an emaciated squirrel, snarling from the corner of his mouth, "Today I am Ander the Benevolent. You owe me!" He was up and gone before the lucky creature could respond.

"You there! Batty boy with the injured wing!"  
Ander slowed to a walk as he approached the creature, waving a paw goadingly under his own arm to emphasize.

The beast turned to look and then abruptly picked speed again, but Ander was not put off. The weasel trailed doggedly after him, stepping rhythmically as if to some unknown song. When the bat glanced over his shoulder, the weasel grinned broadly, held up a paw, and gave a dainty, twiddling kind of wave.

The bat let out a resigning sigh. "What do you want?"

"Oh?" Ander drew a claw up to his lip. "I forgot that you weren't mute. You keep surprising me!" He adjusted the collar of his tattered coat while he spoke, looking at it more than at his fellow prisoner. "I just wanted to say, _well_...Hm."

The bat yelped and stumbled back when Ander suddenly closed in, brown eyes locking with his gray ones.

"You know, I never _did_ catch your name. I don't think I'll leave until I do."

The shorter creature took an audible breath, stalking awkwardly past Ander's legs and over to a corner in the wall, where he set his tray down and tried to get comfortable.

Ander watched him start before letting himself smirk and patter after him.  
"Must I ask you yet again, Winged One? What _are_ you called?" he trilled.

Frustration leaked from the bat's presence. He stuck his spoon in his mouth and swallowed, blurting, "Why do you need to know?!"

The weasel shrugged, flicked his tail, and then pinned his paws against the wall above the other's head.

The bat beneath him fumed.

"I don't know," Ander said, "Maybe I'm just curious. Is it such a bad thing for me to know what to call the beast who saved my life?" He paused for effect, relishing the silence that set in.

"It's Bechtel," snapped the bat at last, gulping down the remainder of his ration. Ducking out of Ander's way, he rose, frowning tiredly up at him. "Can I go now?"

" _Go_?" echoed Ander, hurt, though still wearing his half-lidded smile. "Already? But you are only just meeting me now!" He thrust his right paw out. "You _know_ , Bechtel, you do seem a bit dim, so I will be kind and give you a reminder-and you only get one, so make good use of it! My name is Ander." He caught sight of the bat eyeing his paw and repeated his previous gesture. "Hurry up, shake it. I don't have all season."

It looked as if Bechtel was working through a hundred mental qualms in the happy moment he made himself shake paws with the former vermin leader.

Ander beamed from ear to ear, triumphant and glorious.

Bechtel pulled his paw away. "Now if you're all done being so kind, Ander, I have things to do."

"Surely you can eat and talk at the same time?" the weasel asked, stepping in sync with the bat.

Bechtel released a resigned sigh. Ander took that as his cue. He slung one arm around his acquaintance's shoulders and let out a smug chuckle. "You know? You remind me of somebeast. Dummy was his name-or Dimmy."

"Really," said Bechtel.

Ander flicked his ear. "Yes, _really!_ He was _quite_ the stick-in-the-mud, just like you, and he had a gruesome stammer. He'd always correct me; 'S-Sir, it's D-D-Dimmy, Sir, oh, I'm _Dimmy_.' You would not be able to believe your ears if you heard him, the nerve!"

Bechtel seated himself in a secluded corner and began eating, pretending not to hear. Ander knelt delicately next to him.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "But enough about _him_. You probably want to hear about me."

The bat shrugged dismissively.

"As you can likely tell, Bechtel, I am very rich. Do you like my coat?" In one broad movement, Ander stuck his arm out in front of the bat, causing him to jerk back and nearly spill his dish.

"It's fine," Bechtel snapped, shoving his plate aside.

"Only _fine_?" For a fleeting second, Ander seemed personally harmed. The look faded once he stared down and picked at his sleeve. "I do suppose it got damaged in the fight. I sewed the rips, you know, but I suppose you can still tell. And it was my favorite coat, too." Sighing, he rested his chin on his knees. Bechtel gradually came to focus on him. His gaze softened. "Back before those detestable pirates arrived, my horde and I would-"

"Horde?" Bechtel interrupted, getting ready to stand up. "Oh, no. No, no, _no."_

"No?" Ander broke into a cold sweat and whipped out a paw to stop him. "It's-not-it's not like _that_ , Bechtel! My horde was just a group of three, yes, besides me-we were...treasure hunters."

"Is that how you got rich?" asked Bechtel suspiciously, settling slowly.

The weasel beamed. "Of course! We would search everywhere from Salamandastron to Mossflower to find the _perfect_ jewels."

Bechtel cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. Interest glimmered in his eyes.

Ander, too, was falling for his own lie. "The creatures that admired us - and, believe me, there were a lot of them - dubbed us the Mossflower Treasure Crew, and me, their king!"

Bechtel's eyes narrowed. "You keep saying that."

Ander drew his paws in close to his chest. "Saying _what_? 'The?'"

"Mossflower." Bechtel tapped a claw to his chin. "So... are you from there?"

Ander raised a brow and cautiously nodded. "Why?" he demanded.

Bechtel shrugged. "Well, I happen to be, and I've never heard of the 'Mossflower Treasure Crew.' Just... odd, since you were so renowned."

Ander made sure to show no signs of reaction to the probing. This was the moment that would secure or break the lie. Putting on a look of indignation, he said, "You've heard nothing of me? Admirable Ander? King of Weasels? The Magnificent? The Wealthy? The Beautiful?! Why, the beasts even forged a crown for me as tribute!" He huffed and folded his arms. "You simply must have been in the wrong parts of Mossflower. You didn't get out much, did you?"

That's when Ander saw it; the little flinch from that bat that promised his words struck true. Bechtel made a show of holding his unflatering gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged.

"I guess so," he said with a chuckle. "Never thought I'd meet somebeast from Mossflower, this far away." A smile rested on his face. "...it's a little piece of home, even if it comes in a vermin's pelt."

Ander nudged him. "A winsome vermin's pelt," he corrected, returning the smile with his typical half-lidded smirk. "Have you ever been to Redwall?"

Bechtel shook his head. "No, have you?"

"No," said Ander rather bitterly. "I was told by my father that it was a bad place. That they did not like creatures like me."

"You're a bit...well, eccentric, but Redwall wouldn't have just kicked you out. Have you ever heard the story of Veil, or...oh, what were their names..." Bechtel clacked his claws together. "Dingeye and Thura! Redwall gave them all a chance." His whiskers twitched. "Even if they didn't end up deserving it."

Ander scratched his chin. None of the names Bechtel had mentioned rang a bell. "What are you saying?" he whimpered. "I, of course, _would_ deserve it. Are _you_ saying I wouldn't?"

"Ask Redwall." Bechtel crossed his wings. "Frankly, I'm still a skeptic."

Ander huffed. He opened his mouth, about to bombard the bat with a boatload of refuting comments, but he could not; all he could see when he looked away from him were the starving slaves and the wet, cold drabness of the Marshank kitchen. Bechtel's mere companionship felt to the Weasel King like a portal out of there.

He scratched at his collar. "Fine, fine. When I get out, I will walk right up to their gates, rattle the bars, and declare that Bechtel has sent me with a question." He grinned wryly and jammed his claws between the metal ring and his fur. "Hmm! ...That I was sent by _Bechtel_. You know, that name of yours sounds exactly how I imagine what you have on that dish of yours must taste! Frankly, I sound like I'm gagging each time I say it."

Bechtel flattened his ears. "Gagging? It's...it's my name!" he retorted, aghast. "How would you feel if I said that about your name? A name is not something a creature can control!"

"No-it's-well, Bechtel..." Ander cringed. "Come now, _Friend_ ," the word felt foreign on his tongue, "I did not mean it as an insult, only an observation! In fact, as a token of my _camaraderie_ , I would love to bestow upon you a better name, a nickname; the name of Beck."

Bechtel remained with his dubious expression, winged arms folded in a withdrawn fashion across his bony chest, unsure of what to make of this weasel's attempt at hospitality. On one paw, the vermin could be considered blatantly rude, but on the other, it seemed as if he was genuinely trying.

Ander blinked hopefully.

"Fine," muttered the bat, relaxing. "If my name is that much of a problem for you, then I can live with 'Beck.'"

Ander shot up like a snake from the ground, clapping gleefully. "Hooray, oh, goodie!" He bent, offering a paw to Bechtel. "Come, let's leave this dismal scullery. I can tell you more about my crusades-em, _adventures_ -elsewhere. I _do_ despise being eavesdropped on by nosy volunteers."

Bechtel rose and began to follow the weasel.

"Nosy volunteers, huh? What's your opinion on all of them?"

"Have they ever complimented me, or given me a gift? Have they stopped to admire me?" Ander sneered, drawing a paw dramatically over his face. "No," he snapped, throwing it down by his side. "Of course I don't like them. I could barely spit in their direction! They...have a certain idiocy which _sickens_ me to the very core."

"They're evil," Bechtel interrupted, "Evil and no-good and-"

Ander butted in. "Affably stupid! To willfully throw your life down the drain, to, to-"

"To sign up to murder other creatures that are still in their prime!" Bechtel spread his wings.

" _Yes_. Horrid etiquette. I could probably write a book about their misdeeds."

Off to his right, he could feel Bechtel tense up and look at him, as if the bat would surely explode if he waited another minute to ask his new ally a question.

The tension fell, and instead, the bat cocked his head to the side inquisitively. "You write, Ander?"

The weasel nodded almost without thinking. "Of course I write," he said snootily. "Do I look uneducated to you?"

"I'm the wrong beast to ask," Bechtel said. "My eyes aren't... like others'. I only see when I speak, through sound waves."

"You...ah, blind as a bat, they say!" Ander laughed sheepishly.

The bat smiled wistfully. "You're lucky. I've always wished I could write."

"You cannot write?" asked Ander, aghast. Slowly, his face turned white under his fur. "Surely you can read!"

Bechtel shook his head. "No such luck, though I love hearing stories."

Ander turned away and scratched at his chin. Here was a chance to make alliances. One bat may not stand up to the whole of the Crucible, but it was a start to have a beast in one's corner. And, if the bat's words were to be believed, then just maybe Ander's unstable handwriting and personal lack of knowledge would go undetected. He had always been good at conning his way through.

He spun back to face the bat. "How lucky you are to find a weasel who fancies the arts." He slung his arm around Bechtel's shoulders. "I'll teach you to write."

"You... what?" Bechtel gasped, then beamed. "Y-you'd do that? For me?"

"And far more than that! I have more stories than you can fathom, and _all_ of them true! Recalling them... yes, I think they should help make this wretched place a little more tolerable."

The bat's feet stamped the ground excitedly. "That... that would be wonderful! I can't believe that-"

Ander held up a claw. "Ah ah, _but_ ," he said, smiling coyly.

Bechtel's ears drooped. "Of course," he muttered. "I forgot how these things go. What'll it be in return? Using my wings for shade again?"

"No. I do not need your ratty appendages, thank you, Beck. I merely want you to be my cellmate. The ferret that shares my cell has the most horrible sense of humor and does not seem bright enough to understand the importance of," here he lowered his voice to a whisper, " _Personal hygiene."_

The bat pulled a wry face and crossed his arms. "As long as you understand it yourself, I don't think that will be a problem. It's a fair trade."

"Is it? Goodie! I can teach you whenever it's late and nobeast's looking. And then we can stay up even _later_ and you can hear all about my adventures."

Bechtel halfheartedly agreed-it was the least he could do, because he wanted to learn to write and Ander seemed so, _so_ happy to finally have a friend. Perhaps it was what they both needed. Perhaps they were meant to befriend one another ever since that initial meeting on the pirate ship...perhaps it was fate.

"It's getting late. I have to go train now," said Bechtel at last, a bit disappointed.

Ander's ears drooped. "Oh," he said. "I'll come with you. It isn't like I have duties to attend to here."

"No, Ander...but I'll meet you right here before curfew, alright?"

"...Fine."

Ander watched as Bechtel backed away and fitfully hurried off in the direction they had come, although there was a spring in his step, a bit of hope, which Ander noticed was not there before.

~.~.~.~

Hours later found the weasel sore and sweating. His paws had blistered from the pick, despite his delicate swinging of the tool. The stench and groaning of other slaves, all lined up to perform various duties for the construction crew, had set a frown upon his face from the first moment he stepped into the Crucible. There would be no training for him today-he was to assist with the clearing of rubble that some other band of slaves left with all the care of a child.

He paused, wincing and gingerly kissing at his sore paws. How long had he been working? Hours? Days? The taskmaster guards overseeing them were certainly cruel enough, giving no rest or respite from the work despite his numerous requests. He even asked nicely! _More_ than nicely!

He shot a glare over his shoulder, then perked up when he noticed the taskmaster had disappeared. Leaning back, he caught sight of the beast shouting at a bluejacket guard. A slow, devious grin worked its way onto his face. He checked quickly to be sure nobeast was looking, took several careful steps back, then set his pick down and scurried from the work site.

He scrambled up the first passageway he found. He would have to return soon, lest he risk the wrath of the guardsbeasts, but some rest and distance seemed only right. He had earned this, whether the guards agreed or not.

His pace slowed, and he folded his arms as he took in all the different passageways. No other beasts crossed his paths, and in fact, the hallways were eerily quiet, save for the pitter patter of his footpaws. Thoughts of rest soon turned to schemes of escape, and he began scrutinizing the stone for cracks and holes, anything letting in a little bit of outside air or light. Nothing yet, but he still stood a chance. Perhaps he had discovered unknowingly his ticket to freedom.

Suddenly, his whiskers twitched, and his paws, folded anxiously behind him, began itching and sweating. A shiver ran up his back. He sensed the presence of another here. "I am not alone," he whispered, but when he turned, he saw nobeast, and could pick up no trace of a scent. Squinting, the weasel tiptoed further down the empty stone hall, and came to a fork.

One passage, it appeared, harbored some kind of life. The glow of lanterns gushed from it, and every so often he could hear a muffled voice or two. Sneering, he waved contemptuously in that direction, and hurried off towards his right-the darker path, and the one seeming most unused.

A faint breeze tickled his fur. Ander grinned widely.

 _Wind? In a completely enclosed space? Unlikely!_

He charged forward, up a winding set of stairs, then skidded to a halt when he beheld the source of the breeze. Across from him, a small hole pierced through the stone, with a few planks of wood blocking access to it. He ran forward and threw his paws upon one of the boards. When it didn't budge, he snarled, kicked, and swore under his breath. Nothing helped, so he set his attention upon another board.

It creaked under his first tug. On the second, the bottom half came loose, opening a hole large enough for him to barely squeeze through. The weasel threw his brown paws up to his mouth, trying to suppress a cry of happiness. He wondered briefly if he should try to retrieve his first and only friend. His joy - and moral quandary - faltered when he looked beyond the hole.

Outside lay a scaffold, ice long-encrusted upon its surface. Past the scaffold, he saw the tops of Marshank's buildings, and a very, very far drop to the ground.

 _Curses and condemnations!_ _I must be three-stories high!_

Steadying his breath, he took a step back from the hole. His eyes narrowed shrewdly.

 _Perhaps if Bechtel were with me, he could fly me down. Yes... yes, that would work. Then, we would be free, far from this place!_ He cast a glance back the way he had come. _Hmm... but I should keep this to myself. At least until the time is right. I'll wait until Bechtel and I are both_ _assigned as workers,_ _and then we will escape!_ A whimper of a laugh slipped past his lips. _I am not going to die!_

Ander made sure to put the lower half of the board back in place, then took in as many details of this place. The area seemed completely forgotten. Perhaps it was once a hallway for the staff of the Crucible, but no longer. Now it was _his_ beautiful bridge to freedom and the happy rest of his life. He pulled his coat about himself and slyly padded back the way he had come.

Upon passing the lit passageway again, his round ears fluttered up, and he leaned his head coyly in that direction.

A beautiful noise danced its way from the light and played games with his head.

"Why, it can't be so," he breathed, "I'd recognize that sound anywhere."

Taking a tentative step, and then a skip and two forward, the vermin pressed his belly against the wall and poked his neck around the opening. His eyelids fluttered at once.

There, seated in a circle around a group of glowing lanterns, were three creatures. Marshank-employed woodlanders all, they played wondrous music.

Ander trapped one creature in particular inside his ogling gaze. It was a hedgehog, and in its paw, a perfect wooden violin which cast such a succulent sound that the weasel could barely contain himself.

"Oh my," he blurted.

The music came to a grinding halt at once.

Ander blinked himself awake. His eyes locked with those of the guards and his heart thrummed wildly in his chest. _Now I've done it! This will forever go down in history as Ander's folly, and my handsome face remembered as the crazy one who blindly went to his death by following alluring music in this desolate place!_

"Look at him, slobbering at us," remarked a grizzled otter to the hedgehog with the violin. He raised a hefty paw. "Oi! Weasel! I'm going to ask again, and next time won't be so kindly; what are you doing here?"

"Me? Doing? _Here?_!" Ander cried, pulled from his head. Every bone in his body urged him to run. "I could not resist but to be your audience!" he drooled. "Surely you did not play for nobeast to hear...?"

The guards exchanged glances with one another, but did not move to draw their weapons.

Ander took that as his cue and scampered up to them, a nervous smile spread across his face. "I play too," he explained, back hunched in an animalistic, skittish way. "Specifically, I play _that_." And he pointed to the violin.

The otter glanced at the squirrel beside him who glanced at the hedgehog.

"He's a slave, August," the otter murmured to the hedgehog. "See his collar?"

"Hmm, yes, I do," the hedgehog whispered back.

"Let him play," said the squirrel to the others.

The burly otter guffawed under his breath and turned to Ander as a predator would its prey. "You're one of the workers brought in today. Why aren't you with them?" he growled.

"I-doo-I-" Ander stammered dumbly, scared beyond belief. "I...heard you. I-I liked it. As I said, I can play...that."

"Let him try!" the squirrel urged.

August leaned forward. The code was strictly set to punish trespassing slaves, but he and his friends were having fun, and there was nobeast around to see. They, technically, were not supposed to be at this end of Marshank either.

"Here's the deal," he said, leaning towards Ander. "You will play it, and if what you do is good, we won't tell anybeast we saw you here. If you play it bad, hmm, then we'll do what Lord Cain would want us to do with you. Understood?" He glanced at his cronies and the three of them exchanged laughs.

Confidence returning fast, Ander stared at him resolutely. "Of course," he snapped, and held out his paws.

"Watch, he's going to flounder," the otter snickered.

August moved from his seat and handed Ander the instrument and the bow used to play it.

Presently, the guards sat back, staring at the weasel head-on.

Ander cleared his throat, nervously straightening his back. The instrument felt foreign in his paws. Long had it been since he had felt the touch of one of these things, as good as it was to have the chance again.

He ran the bow jaggedly across the strings, and a screeching, earsplitting sound clawed its way out of the instrument.

All four creatures winced.

"I'm just warming up!" Ander gasped, horrified at his own incompetence. He fumbled with the tools at hand. _Have I forgotten everything I once held dear?_

He squinted down at what he held before him and tried again. The noise that came from the instrument was nowhere near as cringe-inducing, but this time it caused snarky whispers to be passed between the guards.

Ander tried his hardest to tune them out.  
 _What to play, what to play! Think about Mossflower...you just met a new friend today, and he was from Mossflower too. No, you did not meet him today...you met him on a pirate ship._

Memories hit him at once, and they were fond ones, ones of him idling away as a child with his father's violin and a song that he had picked up from a seafaring foreigner who had joined the horde. Despite being a swashbuckling tune, it was delicately interlaced with elegance and grandeur.

Almost without thinking, he began echoing on the instrument what he heard in his head. The song dipped and peaked adventurously, beginning with a jovial jump and getting quicker and quicker before seamlessly slowing and becoming something subtle in sound and beautiful in nature. Ander's hidden and only talent had sprung to life like a bird from the nest.

He was no longer at Marshank, and he was no longer a prisoner. He was free and with a grin on his face, with nowhere to go but his music to guide him. The melody was entrancing and went on, until, minutes later, the precious bow he held in his paw slid to a graceful stop.

He blinked open his eyes to see the slack-jawed expressions the faces of his captors beheld. His chest swelled with pride.

"You were amazing!" gasped the squirrel.

The otter remained silent, but had a newfound respect in his eyes.

"Yes...What is your name, hmm?" asked the hedgehog.

"Ander," came the tittered reply. "Ander the Awe-Inspiring...as you have proved to me."

"My name is August, hmm. The squirrel is Awin and my cranky friend of an otter is Bartholomew," said the hedgehog.

Ander nodded. He was giddy with exhilaration and made no move to hand the violin back, but the hedgehog made no move to take it.

"You're not going to tell, then?" the weasel inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

August shook his head. "Oh, no, hmm, I _am_ going to tell, and soon all of Marshank will know about your talent."

"My-what? What do you mean?"

August grinned at him. "You know. You're _Ander-_ and I've heard about you, mhm. You're that one who keeps on rambling that he's the best."

"That's because I am!" squawked Ander indignantly.

"Then surely you know what I mean, hmm? Fame, Ander, you seem like somebeast who'd like it. How would you feel about playing something before each of the fights, as a, hmm, sort of one-beast orchestra? Hmm, yes, it would get you out of partaking in the battles, I'd make sure of it."

Ander's fur spiked. The words spoken by that angel of a hedgehog sent a towering wave of ecstacy exploding over him.

A smile of disbelief on his face, the weasel nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, I will do it!" he cried, hugging the violin to his chest and letting forth a great laughing sob of relief. "I will become famous, and all the world shall hear me work my magic!"


	13. Be Thou My Vision

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Be Thou My Vision  
**

 _By: Bechtel  
_

* * *

 _ _Great horror always beckons forth the true nature of beasts. They are times of hope and hopelessness alike. The records here at Redwall speak volumes on this matter-how cowards and heroes alike shed their masks.__

 _ _No mask could stand against the horror of the Culling, and when his fell, Bechtel needed direction. Desired it more than anything.__

 _These were the first steps upon a painful, but necessary road._

 _~.~.~.~_

Straw and dust sputtered free from the dummy under the hail of Bechtel's blows. Molly shouted something behind him, but he listened only to the rip of burlap as his claws sunk into the cheap visage of his future foes. He imagined the faces of each volunteer, their sneering smiles turned to sackcloth screams. When they begged for mercy, he carved their throats to ribbons.

Red dripped from the lifeless husks. So much red, but never enough to purify the sin-stained sands. To wash away the blame. To bring back beasts gone too early.

A claw hooked around his shoulder and spun him from the slaughter. The vision of blood and beasts fell from his mind, replaced by the glare of his trainer.

"Bechtel!" Molly snapped. "I said take a breather!"

His breaths came out hot and heavy. "I'm _fine,_ " he muttered, moving to turn back to the dummy.

Her grip remained firm. "I'm not asking."

The prickles of anger in Bechtel's chest demanded action. Demanded more blood from the straw-filled effigy. He forced a sigh and a nod, and only then did she let him go. He walked to the large barrel set out for the slaves, and splashed his face several times over. He hissed at the cold, but savored the clarity it brought. The roar of other beasts training washed over him as the crisp water dripped.

"You did well yesterday."

Bechtel scoffed. "I know when I'm lucky. I was a terrified mess out there. I could barely see over all the noise, and-"

"Look at them." Molly nodded in the direction of the south wall.

He didn't need the echoes' reminder that she gestured to the three slaves by the cliffs, hunkered in petrified heaps. They refused to train, refused to speak, and refused to eat.

"They might have survived the Culling, but they aren't going to live much longer," Molly said.

Bechtel's attention focused on a rat slumped against the rocks. The volemaid he comforted before the Culling was no longer by his side, leaving the beast a ghost-like husk that haunted the shore. The bat's grip against the barrel tightened. "You don't know that."

"When you've seen as many beasts come through here as I have, Bechtel, you pick up on things." She nodded to the group. "Their fear will be their grave."

He spun from the barrel and stepped closer to her. "They aren't warriors, I'm not either. I want to be, but I'm not. The next time I go out in that arena may be my last!"

She regarded him, snout inches from his own. A long silence fell between them, until the heat within his chest cooled from the drip of water.

And then she spoke, "Why are you afraid?"

"I'm a slave in a death cult! Would you like _all_ the reasons?"

"Just one will do." Molly folded her wings behind her and paced around Bechtel, gazing at him as a schoolmaster does a student. "It's not the carnage you fear. You haven't mentioned the horrors of the Culling once since your return. Only asked for more training. Harder training." She nodded. "I can respect that in a beast, and yet you're still held back by fear."

Bechtel turned back to the barrel, taking up the wooden cup beside it and scooping it full of water.

"You've killed before."

The cup halted briefly at his lips, though Bechtel forced himself to down the liquid. No cooling refreshment followed, only winter's chill settling upon his wet fur.

"It explains why the blood and bodies don't faze you." The echoes had long since silenced, but still he heard her pace around him. "But no… it's not killing. You wouldn't seek me out if that was what terrified you. It's something else."

"I don't see why this is importa—"

"Who is it? The beast that haunts you?"

Bechtel staggered backwards from the barrel. He stared at Molly, but the image of an elderly mouse came to his mind. "How do you know that?"

"I told you. I've met many beasts." She set a claw on his shoulder. Not the rigid grip of a teacher, but the comfort of a friend. "Whatever happened in your past, Bechtel, you must set it aside. What matters now is that you are here. That you are alive, this day and the next. That is all that matters. Your past has made you strong, but you must let it go."

Bechtel held the mouse's memory close, full of life and joy. Days far from trouble and turmoil, when the world made sense.

"…I'm not sure if I can."

Molly's touch fell from his shoulder, taking with it her warmth. He shuddered.

"Do you know why I chose you?" Molly asked. "Why I went out of my way to train you?"

He chuckled wryly, staring at the ground. "I don't suppose it had anything to do with my charming personality and dashing looks."

She touched his chin and turned his face to hers. "It's because I saw a survivor in you. Someone who understands that living isn't easy, and every day must be fought for. "

His brow furrowed. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because I need your help."

She pressed something against his chest—a letter, sealed with a makeshift blot of wax. For a moment, Bechtel dared to hope—a weak flame flickering against the cold fear slithering through his bones.

"What is this?" he asked.

"I can't tell you that," she whispered, "but it _is_ important. I need you to deliver this to a hedgehog named Heston at the granary during the evening meal tonight."

"The granary? But that's restricted to slaves, isn't it?"

"Do you trust me, Bechtel?"

Bechtel scrutinized her—the unblinking eyes, the stalwart posture, the tattered wings that spoke far more of strength than weakness. Molly wore her collar not like a chain, but a crown. Somehow, this bat had not only learned to survive, but thrive within this horrible place.

Standing this close to her - to the letter that loomed with purpose and promise - caused winter's doubt to recede from his shoulders, leaving only a burning flame of courage to warm him.

He plucked the letter from her grasp and tucked it into the interior of his shirt. "Tell me what I need to do."

~.~.~.~

Footsteps crunched in the drift beyond the rough-hewn planks of the mess hall's walls. Voices accompanied the movement, lamenting and boasting at once of gambles past and present. Surprise victors who made them rich, and champions who made them poor. Blood money either way.

Bechtel growled, muscles tensing.

 _Not yet,_ the echoes cautioned. _They're almost gone._

Bechtel puffed out a hot breath, huddled beneath the sickly-orange glow reaching forth from a window. Inside, an otter's clarion anthem of bawdy maids and bargained fortunes still prompted the _rru-thump_ of beasts' feet striking the floor in dance. A too-perfect distraction, allowing Bechtel to slip from the mess hall without a single guard noticing his absence.

 _They're gone, Bechtel! Go now!_

Bechtel sprinted from the wall, wings angled out far enough to keep his footfalls light against the snow. He passed the slaves' dormitories, then the well that signaled the edge of the slave yard. He clicked twice, assured himself that no guards roamed nearby, then continued onwards. The face of the Marshank cliffs and the rumble of the sea prevented any true escape, but already he was far beyond where slaves were allowed to wander.

He spotted the wide, thatch-roofed granary Molly had described and hurried to it. Half-spoiled beans and snow-molded straw tickled his nostrils as he opened the door and ducked inside. A click told him only of countless crates and barrels stacked high upon each other. Nothing of the hedgehog he was to meet.

Wingtips fiddling against one another, Bechtel paced in place. He clicked again and studied the various platforms towering high above him, though no hedgehog lurked above either.

 _Nothing,_ the echoes returned. _Perhaps you've simply arrived early? Or the hedgehog is simply late._

And so Bechtel waited. Every minute that passed sent a new thought to his mind: the guards must surely have noted his absence by now. Were they searching for him? What if he was found here? What if the hedgehog had already been found, and had been tortured to reveal this clandestine meeting? What even was the purpose of this meeting?

Bechtel reached into his shirt and pulled free the letter. He gazed at the wrinkled fold of parchment, cursing his blighted eyes. How easy it would be to simply rip the missive open and discover for himself what secrets lay within.

 _She trusts me,_ he thought, recalling Molly's grave expression. With a sigh, he moved to put the letter back. _I wouldn't read it even if I could._

The _crick_ of a latch sent a jolt through the bat. He whirled and sent out a click as the door to the granary squealed open.

 _A hedgehog, of well-fed disposition and—_

"Oh." Bechtel sighed. "You must be Hesto—"  
 _  
—and wearing a coat, the same as the rest of the guards._

Bechtel froze as the hedgehog locked eyes with him. Surprise registered on the beast's face briefly, then disappeared in a snarl.

"What are you doing here, slave?"

Bechtel turned, sprinting forward two steps before a paw latched around his wing. Pain spasmed through his injury, and he cried out as the hedgehog slammed him down atop a crate.

"I asked you a question!"

Biting curses at the woodlander's traitorous alliances fell upon Bechtel's tongue, but Molly's image kept them unspoken—her trust, her faith in him to keep her secret.

"I-I got lost!" Bechtel shouted. "And then I started exploring this hut. It won't happen ever again, I promise and swear!"

The hedgehog's scowl deepened, then his brow twitched. He glanced over his shoulder and looked at the straw-covered floor. Bechtel saw it as well—Molly's letter, dropped onto the floor.

One paw still full of Bechtel's shirt, the hedgehog bent down and snatched the parchment up. "What is this?"

"I haven't the faintest idea! It was there when I got here." He tried to gather his composure, even with the grip latched around his front. "I'm a bat, if you haven't noticed, so I can't read. I simply didn't think a scrap of paper was worth any—"

A slap sent stars flashing against the blur of Bechtel's vision.

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Who gave this to you?"

Bechtel tasted blood. His lips peeled back in the beginnings of a snarl. His claws begged to sink into the guard's face, to peel away that triumphant look and savor the screams.

 _No,_ he told himself. _She trusts you._

He forced himself to breathe, then leaned against the fear that equally pulsed through him. "I-I'm sorry, sir. Truly. I would help you if I could, but I'm telling the truth." Every word tasted of ash in his mouth.

The hedgehog's eyes narrowed. "You're covering for someone, hmm?" He chuckled. "I get it. Look, bat, if you fess up, then I won't have to report this to Captain Whip. Sound like a good deal?"

The initial rebuttal Bechtel planned caught in his throat. Like a devil's whispers, the hedgehog's words slithered down Bechtel's ears, settled in his chest, and prompted him to realize that his life was held within his answer.

He recalled Molly's image once more, handing him the letter. Not just his life, Bechtel realized, but hers as well. He found himself weighing himself against her, and found himself wanting. She was strong, a beast with purpose who forsook wandering and mere survival. That letter represented her hopes, hidden as though they may be. Perhaps even the hopes of many more beasts.

His survival, in light of that, seemed insignificant.

"I've already told you everything," he said, voice only a resigned whisper.

The hedgehog did not respond immediately. Did not respond at all. The chokehold around Bechtel's shirt released, leaving the bat to gasp in lungfuls of air.

"Come in!" the hedgehog shouted, and before Bechtel could react, the door to the granary creaked open once more.

Bechtel didn't believe the echoes when they spoke. "M-Molly?"

His trainer shut the door behind her and regarded Bechtel with a bright smile and a clap of her wingtips. "Excellently done, Bechtel." She stepped forward. "I apologize for the subterfuge, but I had to be sure you could be trusted."

Bechtel pushed himself off the crate. His legs swayed beneath him and he lurched forward.

"Oop, easy there!" the hedgehog said, catching him and supporting him upright.

Bechtel flinched at the hedgehog's touch, but any further action faded to the scramble of emotions rushing through him. "I… I don't understand," he managed.

"August, set him down and give him that concoction of yours."

The hedgehog nodded, lowering Bechtel slowly down so that the bat's back rested between two barrels. He retrieved a small flask from the fold of his jacket and popped the end off.

"Drink this," the hedgehog said. "It'll take the edge off you."

The liquid hit before he could argue, slipping hot and coarse down his throat. Bechtel coughed at the muddy-sweet drink, then shivered at a ripple of warmth flooding through him.

"Brandy, scotch, and a touch of honey," the hedgehog said with a wink. "Nothing better to wake you up, hmm."

Bechtel ignored the beast. "Boss, tell me what's going on, please."

Molly nodded. "You're confused. I understand." She bent down and retrieved the letter from the floor. "I do need your help, Bechtel, but it isn't delivering a letter. It's something far more important. That's why I needed to test you." She gestured to the hedgehog. "Bechtel, meet August. August, Bechtel."

August waved a paw. "Hello." He winced. "I… hrm, am really sorry about how I treated you. For what it's worth, you handled it excellently."

The warmth of the drink settled into a slow burn as Bechtel recovered some of his alertness. He jerked back from the hedgehog. "He's one of _them,_ " he snarled.

"He works for Cain, yes, but only as a lie. August stands for the same things that I do, as do others."

"And what is that?" Bechtel snapped.

"Freedom. Freedom from living the rest of our days here. Freedom to find a future that isn't soaked in other beasts' blood."

Bechtel straightened up, the hopes he hadn't even dared imagine suddenly springing to life before him. "You're plotting an escape."

"For a long time. It's only with Cain's departure and the renovation of the Crucible that I now finally have the chance to see it through. And it begins tonight." She nodded to August.

"We've learned there's going to be a feast," August said. "Some sort of announcement for the survivors of the Culling and the new volunteers. No one else will be allowed in. Unfortunately, we don't know anything more."

"Whatever it is, it's important enough for Administrator Hale and Captain Whip to both be there."

"So, you want me to tell you what this announcement is?"

"No." Molly gestured at August, who handed her a small vial. "I want you to kill Hale."

Bechtel blinked. "What?"

"This is hemlock. A... benefactor on the outside has given this to us, and clear orders. Hale must die tonight." She held out the vial. "A couple drops in Hale's wine and he'll be dead by morning."

The rush of joy at learning of a tangible escape plan staggered to a halt. Bechtel's brow twitched as he regarded the vial. The beast – Hale – deserved to be thrown tail-first into Hellgates, no doubt, but this was not the fiery passion and justice of the warriors of Redwall or the hares of the Long Patrol. This was the trickery of verminkind—deaths wrought in darkness.

"You can do this, Bechtel," Molly said, suddenly taking his wingtip in her own. "It's why I chose you: you understand me. You understand what needs to be done, and you'll go through anything and anyone to do it." Her voice trembled with fervor, an intensity bordering on hunger radiating about her. "You already have. It's why you're a survivor."

She held the vial closer. He recalled the volunteers in the arena. The pirates aboard the _Lucky Locket._ Gurry in the cobblestone market. Fat and wealthy beasts proud of their safety in their high towers while their paws stained red with an innocent father's blood.

Bechtel grabbed the vial. "If it means surviving, I'll do it."

~.~.~.~

August led him back to the dormitories, a heavy silence reigning over the trip. The guards voiced their suspicions upon his arrival, but an excuse from August and a look at Bechtel's still-bloody nose silenced any further inquiries. A smart-mouthed slave reminded of his place here in Marshank was simply not an incident of further note. The turncoat hedgehog gave him a nod of silent camaraderie before disappearing back into the dark.

The vial hung heavy at his side, enshrouded by his jacket and dark thoughts. Around him, the slaves and their chatter played distant, like the intangible fragments of a waking dream. He responded to beasts around him when prompted, but his mind focused only upon the job that lay before him. Pawning trinkets in a market or tending gardens risked far less in the way of an untimely and painful death.

And so he thought. He imagined how exactly this "feast" may look, how many beasts would be present, and how exactly a beast with his bearing could possibly hope to poison someone with a miniature army of guards no doubt barricading every side. Each imagined plan ended the same way—his corpse thrown to the sinking grip of a nearby bog.

Only a pinch managed to rip Bechtel from his ruminations.

"Ow!" he cried, clasping at his smarting limb. "What was that for?"

Across from him, Ander scowled. The weasel planted one paw firmly upon his hip while the other wagged a stick. "Are you even listening to me? I go out of my way to exert myself for your benefit, and this is the treatment I get?"

Bechtel gazed at the symbols scratched into the sand below, arcane to him despite their simplicity. Bechtel sighed. "I'm sorry, Ander. I'm not trying to ignore you, it's just… my thoughts are elsewhere right now."

Ander fidgeted his whiskers and huffed. "Well, bring it back to what's important here. _Me._ " Ander swatted his stick against Bechtel's shoulder. "Now pay attention. I'll only repeat this because it's so important. These five letters here are the building blocks for _all_ language, understand?"

He pointed at five different symbols, enunciating each sound with a slow, almost-musical flourish. Bechtel's squinted at the blurry shapes, relying upon his echoes to tell him of their form and design.

By the time the weasel reached the last letter, Bechtel's brow furrowed. "…it spells 'Ander'? The building block for language is your name?"

Ander tapped the stick against his other paw and pursed his lips. "I'm the teacher, Beck. If you have a problem with my methods, find another beast to bother with you."

"No, I really do apprecia—"

A screeching, metallic groan blared through the Drag. Ander and Bechtel both turned to look at the entrance, where several guards entered in through the now-opened gate.

"They're shoving us in our cages already? But it's so early!" Ander growled. "This is preposterous!"

Bechtel tensed as he watched the new guards speak with the few watchbeasts inside the Drag. "No…" he whispered. "That's not what this is about."

Ander's ear flicked. "What do you mean?"

Bechtel didn't respond, focusing on the rat guard - named Gromo - who faced the crowd.

"Attention, gladiators of the Crucible!" The rat's baritone voice ricocheted through the cavern, cutting over the few remaining conversations. "I come on behalf of Administrator Hale, who offers his congratulations to the victors of the Culling. Justice smiles upon you for your efforts." Rehearsed, heartless words. "In honor of your survival, he extends an invitation to join him and Captain Whip for a dinner tonight."

He snapped his fingers, and two other guards approached behind him, bearing two large baskets filled with neatly-folded clothes.

"You will each be given proper garments to wear for the evening. You will be granted enough time to change, but are to report to the gate immediately afterwards. Administrator Hale wishes to see you each at your best, and looks forward to an evening with the Crucible's latest and finest."

The rat turned and left. The basket-beasts handed out various piles of clothing to the watchbeasts, who spread across the Drag in search of the Culling's survivors. Quickly, Ander and Bechtel were found and given their clothing.

"My my," Ander crooned as he unfolded a sharply-pressed shirt and lacey doublet, "perhaps this isn't so bad after all. Dinner in my honor and a finely fitted wardrobe? I could get used to this."

"Hurry up," the guard fox hissed, gesturing at both of them. "Don't keep better beasts waiting."

Ander stuck out his tongue and he undid what few buttons remained on his tattered frock coat. Bechtel hesitated, the vial inside his jacket feeling like an anchor.

"Um, some privacy, if you wouldn't mind?" he asked, offering the guard a sheepish smile.

The fox rolled his eyes, but stepped back and turned slightly to the side. He quickly took an interest in several of the maiden gladiators scattered throughout the Drag. Bechtel repressed a growl as he saw the guard lick his lips.

Working quickly, Bechtel unfurled the garment given to him—a draping poncho of stark red and a simple belt. He turned the poncho over curiously. It was the finest garment he'd ever held, with intricate stitching swirling along the edge. He noted how the slits on either side seemed to be extra wide-perfect for maneuvering his wings.

He realized that the garment had been made specifically for a bat. Perhaps, even, specifically for him.

The thought made him sick.

 _Fitting they chose to color it read. Maybe the designer intended to reflect all the blood it took to raise this place up._

Forcing himself to move, Bechtel shed his torn and bloodied clothing before pulling the poncho over his head and strapping on the belt. He bent down to his ragged clothes and retrieved the vial, securing it behind his belt so that it didn't stand out.

A paw gripped his shoulder, and he froze.

"Well, how do I look?"

Bechtel sighed as he turned to face Ander. A click told him many things about the outfit that he didn't care about, but he focused on the joy etched upon the weasel's face, as if completely indifferent to the fact that he wore the work of evil beasts. The anger returned and found a voice before he could stop himself.

"How can you just say that?" he snapped.

At Ander's look of shock, Bechtel bit back the rest of the words that primed within his throat. This wasn't the time for him to lash out, and not at a fellow slave. No matter how ignorant, aloof, or occasionally unkind, they shared the same miserable lot in life.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ander growled, one paw raised to his chest as if defending the fabric.

Bechtel drew in a breath and forced an easy smile. "I-I mean to say, how can you just say that when you look that dashing? Every lady-weasel in Mossflower would fall head over heels for a chap like you!"

The frown died a swift death as a veritable army of beaming smiles took hold of Ander's face. "See, that's why I knew I liked you, Beck. You're wise enough to recognize greatness when you see it." He straightened his coat proudly. "Your little getup looks nice as well, though I wish you hadn't gone and gotten yourself a bloody nose, though. It ruins the image. See, there really is so much I need to teach y—"

"All right, pack up and move out," the guard spoke, evidently broken from his avarice.

The vial hung heavy as they walked. The air grew thick as Bechtel approached the Drag's gate and the looming responsibility beyond.

 _I'm a survivor,_ Bechtel told himself. He was given this mission for a reason—Molly trusted him, truly and deeply. He couldn't fail her. And yet, the countless attempts and failures he imagined sprang to his mind once more. There was simply no way for him to accomplish the task on his own. Molly, August—neither of them would be there to help.

The fur on his back stood up. Suddenly, he turned to Ander and set a claw on the weasel's shoulder.

"Ander, I need to ask you for a favor," he whispered. "And this time, I really _will_ owe you."


	14. The Feast

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Feast**

 _A Collaboration, Feat. Bechtel and Laurence_

* * *

"Well, they certainly like to take their time."

Hale smacked his lips and savored the crisp of aged mulberry wine. Ten seasons old, set aside lovingly by the proprietor of the Seascar for a special occasion. Hale recalled the tears edging the brewmaster's eyes as he ushered the barrel of wine away, like a beast losing a child.

A pouch of gold on the barkeep's counter swept away any such compunctions. It was one of the ugly truths of Marshank that everyone loved: for the right price, anything could be bought. Anything.

Hale set his goblet aside and surveyed the table before him-pewter work cutlery and trays of the finest butter-browned bread and sugar-frosted tarts. The beginnings of a feast worthy of Marshank. A table for gods and kings alike.

No lords would grace his presence tonight, though. Cain reserved that honor. Only the tools and toys of such creatures - warriors and slaves - would occupy these chairs, and part of Hale quite enjoyed playing the one true ruler.

Hale leaned and beckoned a nearby rat guard. "Deputy Wimmick, just where is our dear captain? I was sure to send him an invitation."

"I'm certain he'll arrive in due time, sire. Captain's a busy beast."

The great oak door to the dining hall cracked open with a twist of metal. A procession of five guards entered, followed by Captain Whip, footpaws slamming against the ancient stone floors.

"Ah-ha!" Hale clapped. "Speak Vulpuz's name, and he shall surely appear!"

"What's this all about, Hale?" Whip jabbed a claw towards the wildcat as he walked the length of the table. "When Lord Cain left, I specifically recall him leaving the _both_ of us in charge. You can't just throw a feast without consulting me first!"

"Oh, but as a matter of fact, I can. And I just did." He gestured to the opposite end of the long table. "Don't worry, I saved you a seat."

Whip smacked the paw aside. "You can bet that Lord Cain will be hearing of this."

"Hear what? That I held a feast honoring the survivors of his arena? Procured these fine delicacies with my own funds? Oh yes, I'm sure my brother will be simply irate with me."

"You may have convinced Lord Cain of this whole show, but beasts like you? They don't change."

"Captain, my days of yearning for my brother's throne are behind me. I appreciate your dedication to Cain, but you must trust his judgment at some point." He clasped his paws together. "I arranged this meal to make an announcement. For my brother's sake, if nothing else, surely you can hang your hatchet for an evening?"

Whip's wiry whiskers twitched once. Twice. He looked ready to spit upon the nearest platter.

"Lord Cain is the only reason you still breathe, traitor. Never forget that."

Hale's ear flicked, hearing approaching footsteps outside the door. "We'll have time to run around this fountain once again, but later. For now, our guests."

The doors burst open once more. A wild cheer followed as the volunteers laid eyes upon the table's bounty.

"Welcome!" Hale said, standing up from his chair. "Please, take a seat to the right and relax."

In entered The Crucible's colorful assortment of killers-rats, squirrels, and everything in between. Iwan the fox swaggered in with two maidens clinging to either arm like dirty laundry. Laurence trudged in behind, his glare against the back of the fox's skull marginally lessened by the goods beckoning to him.

"This isn't a common barroom, Hale," Whip hissed, gesturing savagely towards the tittering vixens.

"Let them have their fun," Hale said with a wave of his paw. "If they make a commotion, then please escort them out."

Whip scoffed, but shuffled away without further complaint.

Conversation filled the air, and Hale took it all in. He noted the tinge of joy, the hunger of an evening just starting. It made the otter's downcast mood all the more noticeable.

The Frostfang's nightlife had clearly gotten the better of him, with cuts and bruises marring an otherwise striking face, yet the otter's severity caught Hale off guard. It was the expression of a beast deep in thought-the expression of a beast prepared to do something very, very stupid.

The slaves entered shortly afterwards. Their pike-wielding escorts unchained them from the guiding line, then ushered them to their seats. The prattle of the volunteers died, replaced by the clatter of feet striking stone. Hale let the silence simmer for a pawful longer.

He eyed the bat and weasel, recalling their narrow survival in the Culling and the rumors of both beasts'... eclectic personalities. Tope Benwrath took the seat to his left, prompting a smile and nod from the wildcat.

"The blazes is this?" Iwan growled, puffing his chest out. "I thought this was supposed t' be a reward for us volunteer folk. Ain't a feast with these louts foulin' up the mood."

Agreement trickled around the fox. Hale steepled his fingers and watched.

"Would you prefer it if our heads were on your platters?" snapped a rat slave.

"Only if there was enough gravy to cover your stench."

The rat shoved himself up from his chair, launching into a string of curses. Volunteers and slaves alike quickly joined into the blossoming argument.

"What is this?" Tope growled next to him. "Did you bring us here just to insult us further?"

"Peace, Benwrath. Just watch."

"I'll not dine with these murderers!" cried an otter, jabbing a claw across the table. "He killed my wife!"

"She got what was coming to her!"

The room erupted. Slaves reached for scones to lob as makeshift weapons, while a pair of volunteers brandished blunted forks.

A crash broke over the din, echoed quickly by a beast's roar. "Enough!"

All heads turned to Captain Whip. The rat stood with both paws clenched against the table.

"Let's make one thing clear: if any one of you draws blood, I'll draw three times as much." His fur rippled along his neck. "So go on. Make your move and give me a reason to have some fun tonight."

Scones and forks alike dropped back to the table. Then a clink of metal drew the beasts' attentions.

"Gentlebeasts, gentlebeasts. Please, let's not ruin this meal." Hale gestured to the table's fineries. "It is a long-storied tradition of Marshank - and the Seftis family - that even the deepest of hostilities can be set aside in the presence of fine food and drink."

Grumbles issued from either side of the table, but no beast raised an objection.

"Allow me to formally welcome you, and extend my thanks for your company this evening." He saluted his goblet. "And my thanks to Captain Whip as well. You have just seen for yourself how seriously he takes the Crucible's safety, and we are all the better for his oversight tonight. Truly, my brother is lucky to have a beast such as you to depend on."

Whip's bristle faltered before the smattering of applause that rose from the volunteers and guards. He cleared his throat and straightened before the sudden adulations.

Once the applause died down, Hale continued, "Tonight, we make merry. Enjoy the fruits of your labor-each of you." He raised his goblet higher. "To your continued survival. May Fate smile upon you as I do."

On cue, several beasts wheeled meal-laden carts from the back of the dining hall.

"I hope you all have a healthy appetite, because dinner is served!"

The servers dispensed the food before the motley mess mates, and the wine flowed freely. Chatter soon rose from the loosened tongues, and Hale reclined in his chair to observe.

Among the slaves, Bechtel remained motionless. A plate of gravy-soaked spuds, exotic fruit, and mixed seafood beckoned the bat's grumbling stomach, but his attention rested only upon the wildcat. He touched a claw to the vial secured at his belt.

"What's the matter, Beck?" Ander asked through a mouthful of braised potatoes. "Eat! You heard the beast-we've earned this!"

Bechtel lip twitched, but he gripped a fork and picked at the slices of fruit. The sweet tasted like rot in his mouth.

 _She's counting on you,_ he told himself. _Stop acting so suspicious._

"I-I'm sorry. I'm just taken aback by all this." He forced another slice down, then called out, "My compliments to the chef!"

"Hear hear!" Ander tipped his wineglass back, drained it, then beckoned a server over.

Bechtel continued to pluck at the meal, spending his time observing every facet in the room-the two sconces on either wall providing dim light, the low ceiling that made any sort of flight an impossibility, the winding hallway in the back leading to a closed-off kitchen without an exit. He saw no viable approach to reach the wildcat without being tackled by at least two guards.

Then a scone struck his face. Bechtel scraped the cranberry filling from his cheek, unaware of the otter gesturing at him across the table.

"Psst! Hey you!"

 _The otter. From the infirmary._

Bechtel's fur rippled along his back, and he made to ignore the otter's look of confusion. Contrition. Constipation. He wasn't sure what the look was, but he held no interest in finding out.

And yet the echoes died, and his examination of the room - and discovery of a way to fulfill Molly's mission - came to a blinded halt. He stabbed his fork into the meat of a clam.

"What do you want?"

Laurence's brow twitched, and he chewed on unspoken words. "I… wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't understand what was happening, but… I do now."

"That's nice." The sconces. They weren't fully-secured, and the torches could be removed easily by sliding out an iron nail. A possibility to consider, if nothing else.

Across from him, the otter groaned and leaned closer. "No, I mean, I know what's happening with you. All of you, and I-"

He paused, noting how Bechtel suddenly grew deeply interested in one of the empty walls. Laurence sighed, leaning back into his chair and leaving the beast be. It wasn't the time or place for apologies anyway.

He recognized few slaves seated across from him, though the sight of the collars lashed about their necks sent a new fire into his chest. He regarded the dark ferret with the crown, and the scowling ferret met his gaze. Laurence offered a silent nod of thanks. The ferret turned back to his meal without returning the gesture.

The volunteers easily outnumbered the slaves two-to-one. While that fact alone sent a new lump of sickness settling in his gut, he noted the number of slaves present. Ten exactly - the number of survivors from the Culling - yet the ferret had not fought in the battle.

"Where's the tenth survivor?"

"Found him dead by the crags," Whip interjected. "Offed himself with a shard of glass. Guess he wasn't much of a survivor after all."

A ripple of laughter rose from the volunteers. "Didn't want to face a fair fight against us lads, eh?" chuckled one of the volunteers, prompting agreements from his nearby friends.

Laurence clenched his fists and drew in a long breath.

"Vhy do you keer about t'e beastah?"

The otter turned and felt his fur stand on-end. A creature sat next to him, weasel-like in appearance, but with a piercing eyes of crimson-vacant and fathomless all at once. Baubles of bone clung to the beast's neck and wrists, but beyond a length of pelt wrapped around the waist, the beast wore nothing else over his stark, golden fur.

Laurence stiffened, unsure what to make of the volunteer. To the beast's credit, they did not share in the percolating amusement of the others. They only stared blankly, waiting for a response.

"Why shouldn't I?" said Laurence. "No one deserves to die like that."

The volunteer considered this, then nodded. "Ayah. Speakah truth. Beastah should have died honorably, before gotts."

Laurence grabbed his glass, suddenly grateful for the wine's presence. "Yeah. I guess."

"Vett ees yeer name, beastah?"

The otter fidgeted with the goblet in his paw for a beat, before finally facing the speaker. "Laurence."

"Dey said yeer name is Frahstfahng. Dey lied between teef! I vill cut dem open for lying to us, ayah!"

"Hold up now, there's no need for that," Laurence had to stand up and physically restrain the beast from launching a sudden attack. Seeing the guards step closer to the pair, Laurence quickly said, "Let's focus on something else instead… like you never told me what your name was."

"Kamba, ayah."

"Okay, Kamba. Interesting name. And, well…" Laurence pursed his lips. "Interesting everything else, I guess. Where are you from, exactly?"

"Mi clan ef monkoozers ees far away, where di fiyah gott touches di ground tik his glow and powah."

"Um… yeah. Can't say I've been there before."

Kamba produced a proud faceful of teeth. "Ayah. No place for soft beastahs like you."

Another servant bearing a plate of food arrived. Laurence noticed then that Kamba was the only beast at the table who hadn't been served alongside everyone else. The smell of bourbon gravy and something full of savory juices struck Laurence's nostrils, prompting his mouth to water as he regarded the steaming plate.

"What did you have to do to get your own personal meal?" asked Laurence.

"Hett to slay dem ket mi own paws."

Laurence blinked. "I'm sorry… what? It almost sounded like you said you killed it yourself."

Kamba raised a brow. "Ees vett I said. T'eir flesh vill shower teh fire gotts blessings upon me en mi clan. I coom here t' spread the words of teh fiyah gotts t' all heathens."

Laurence stared at the hunks on the plate a second time. He noticed the tiny specks of charred fur, the cooked ears situated on top a mush of bone and sinew. He lurched to the side, throat hot as what little he'd eaten before threatened to rise back up.

"Fire gods? What kind of backwards... you're- you're nothing but a retrograded heretic!" Laurence raised the goblet in his claws. "A filthy, dirty, upjumped savage here to spread word of false idols!"

The golden mongoose bristled at the unexpected insults. "Ayah, I not vill stand here and let you call names t' mi an' fiyah gotts!"

Across the table from both gladiators, Bechtel's observation of the room staggered at the dry gags of the otter. The echoes informed him of the dish of debauchery, and he found himself resisting the urge to gag as well.

 _Savages! Cruel and unfit to live!_

He gripped at the hemlock - the medicine that would cleanse this place of evil - and leaned to the weasel beside him.

"Ander, get ready to-"

Ander paid him no mind, laughing at a guard's ill-minded joke as he ate his fill of their captors' fodder.

"Ander!" Bechtel hissed, jerking the weasel around to face him. "What are you doing?"

Ander scowled at the bat's claw, delicately flicking it from his arm. "Excuse _you,_ Beck. I'm enjoying myself while I can. Do you know what it's taken me to earn this? Scrubbing barnacles, sleeping in cells, fending for my life? I think I deserve a night of fun, don't you?"

"Have you forgotten where we are? That you're wearing a Spirits-cursed shackle around your neck? These aren't your friends!"

Ander rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid, but I know opportunities when I see them." He leaned closer and pointed a claw at the wildcat. "Just look at him. Hale Seftis is the complete paragon of a highborn creature. I know how these beasts work. Just... let me do my thing, okay? You wouldn't understand. You weren't raised to be high class like I was."

Bechtel grabbed Ander's arm again when the weasel turned. "You _promised_ me you would help."

Ander's lip peeled back to reveal a fang. "I _know_ what I said."

Before Bechtel could respond, a clinking sound broke over the chatter of the beasts.

"Can I have everybeast's attention, just one last time?" Hale smiled as he stood from his chair. "Thank you. I confess, I did not bring you all here merely to enjoy your company and share my food."

Whispers rose from the crowd.

"You see, I have a very special announcement. But first, a story." The wildcat clasped his paws behind his back as he walked around the perimeter of the table. "I imagine many of you know Marshank's history. Badrang's tyranny is rather infamous. Earned himself a title from it, and left Marshank an empty corpse for pickpockets and layabouts. The sins of a near-sighted beast."

The guards shifted, looking to Captain Whip for support. The rat was tense in his chair, a hot glare affixed upon the prowling wildcat.

"Obviously, our story does not end there. As you can see, my ancestors brought Marshank's dead walls back to life." He gestured about the halls. "This roof over your head, this food you partake in, it is all thanks to them. They purified this land-brought justice to aimless beasts."

"What are you doing, Hale?" Whip hissed as Hale passed.

"You each have been chosen to perform a sacred duty, and yet the crowd has you prance about the arena as playthings. They do not appreciate the role you have to play, but I do. I believe it is time to remind Marshank of the reason it has prospered."

"And what's that?" Iwan asked.

"Justice, of course." Hale reached his chair and rested a paw atop it. "From this day forward, none of you will participate in the normal Crucible fights."

A murmur rose among the crowd, scandalous and hopeful. Hale let them savor it.

"Instead, you will participate in the tradition of my forefathers-the Elders' Pyre. This was the ceremony that united the disparate clans of the North, purged by blood and Fate's favor. Kings and warlords gathered around the fire in times past. Now, you will do the same." He eyed the volunteers, uncertainty shadowing their features. "For power and prestige that couldn't be bought for a lifetime of trying." The slaves, despair and anger clawing for their fragile minds. "For freedom and safety that only Fate can promise."

"This is absurd!" Whip shouted, standing up from his chair. "Lord Cain would never agree to this madn-"

"I'm afraid he already has." Hale reached into his jacket and produced a parchment, stamped with the Seftis seal. "He requested ideas on how to breathe new life into the Crucible. We both agreed upon this arrangement."

He handed the paper to Deputy Wimmick, letting the rat walk it to his captain.

"In fact, I think everyone will find this agreeable, given the alternative."

The volunteers whispered greed and lust to their compatriots, the murk of confusion gone from their faces. The slaves fought hopeful smiles, the potential of freedom beckoning their courage to war. Hale smiled.

"You have already begun training, and with good reason. Your first round of battles begins tomorrow night. A schedule will be provided in the morning for you to review who your opponents will be. And, as it happens, your potential allies."

"We won't fight alone?" asked Ander, a grin spreading across his face.

"Not always. Which, in fact, brings me to an issue of housekeeping we must clear up. Most of you volunteers have already chosen your partners." Beasts elbowed their respective teammates. "However, two of you have not yet chosen a bondsbeast. Laurence "The Frostfang" Copeland… and Kahmabutcha, the Devoted." The otter and mongoose exchanged a glance. "It's a small matter, truly. As per custom, I presume that the two of you will simply pair together and-"

"Do the two of us have to be bonded together?" inquired Laurence between his teeth. All eyes focused on the otter, who looked at the golden mongoose beside him, unmarred face blemished by juice and blood.

"No." Hale folded his paws. "No I suppose not. You can try and barter with your fellow volunteers for one of them."

The otter launched out of his seat and the wooden chair fell backwards to the floor. "Then I'm going to choose my teammate right now."

The collars locked around the slaves' throat boiled his blood once more. He was supposed to abide by this place's rules, but if he did not make a statement here, then his family, no- his kingdom, would never forgive him.

He ignored the inquiries and calls from his fellow volunteers, some even offering to pair with him. He focused only on the ten slaves. Nearly every single one of them turned their gaze away- with the exception of four beasts.

The youthful stoat wearing a tight-fitting tunic and a somber look. He looked young and capable of standing his own. But at the same time, he looked like he did not work well with others. This was no place for a loner, and the stoat would not last long if he continued to be alone.

"My choice-"

The bat donning a poncho, rage burning in his eyes. It was the same one from the medical wing, who tried to tell him the true nature of this place. He too was young and full of desire. If earlier interactions were indicative of his true nature, the bat would challenge Laurence every step of the way.

"My choice for my partner-"

The weasel in a gold-rimmed frock coat with an amused expression. Pompous, brazen and self-serving. He was clearly not the fighting type, and much more likely to revel in the hedonism this place provided than challenge it.

"Is-"

And the black ferret with the silver crown, thoughts intangible. He was tall and well-built, and yet his left arm was still tucked into a slap-dashed sling. Not once did the ferret smile during the feast or speak with anybeast at the table. He wore a scowl on his face like it was a permanent scar. Laurence reflected on that night when the ferret took charge of the situation and made it his own- they represented resilience, strength and secrecy.

"Him."

And all at once, total chaos broke out. Several volunteers jumped to their footpaws and screamed their loudest objections. A pair of guards came to the ferret's defense and pulled him from the table when one volunteer attempted to attack.

The strangest reaction to the news had been from Hale Seftis; the wildcat had only laughed heartily and clapped his paws together like the whole situation had been staged.

"Bravo, Frostfang!" said Hale in between laughs. "Drugaen Vikkars of Illmarsh, what an interesting choice! Never before has a volunteer chosen a slave."

Whip violently shook at the opposite end of the table, barking orders to the guards. "Get this room under control!"

Meanwhile, Bechtel tensed in his seat. An opportunity burgeoned in front of him, full of frenetic beasts and wonderful, distracting chaos. He turned to Ander and smacked the tart from the weasel's paw.

"Ander, grab that torch and distract them!"

Ander rubbed at his paw. "What do you expect me to do with that?"

" _Anything,_ " Bechtel snarled. "Just do it now!"

He shoved the weasel from the chair. A crash of anxiety hit him when Ander paused, caught in indecision, but the weasel ran to the wall and pulled the torch free from its mooring.

"Fie and shame on you miserable beasts!" Ander cried, leaping up onto the table and waving the torch like a "For only I, Ander - Prince of Weasels and Fairest of them all - shall rise victorious over you miserable swine!"

A guard swatted at his feet, but Ander hopped away and kicked a plate of half-eaten delicacies into the guard's face.

The light all but fell to shadow over the bat. Ripping the vial of hemlock free, Bechtel shoved himself from his chair and slithered along the ground. He kept low, dodging the guards rushing by, the beasts far too occupied by the chaos to notice the shift of motion at their feet.

 _You've made it there,_ the echoes told him over the beat of his heart. _The corner of the table. No one watches. Move fast, Bechtel._

Time felt distant, the noise dreamlike, the vial like fire. He struggled with the cork. It popped free, splashing flecks onto his face. He lurched forward and spat, panic colliding with the urgency ushering him forward.

He heard a scream in the distance, followed by a crash.

 _They have Ander!_ The echoes roared. _Hurry!_

Bechtel's legs wobbled beneath him. He stopped breathing. He clicked once, saw the goblet, and held the vial over. The poison fell to the drink with a muted trickle.

Then the echoes told him of Tope, staring straight at him. The bat locked eyes with the stoat. No words came.

 _They're coming back!_

Bechtel rushed from the table's edge, scuttling his way back to his chair. He made it halfway before he saw the pair of oncoming guards. He would never reach his chair in time.

The lesser of two evils it was, then.

Bechtel turned and tackled the nearest slave from their chair. A crash of wood ushered the two beasts' fall to the stone floor.

"I'll choke you with those insults, you ill-begotten cretin!" Bechtel snapped.

The ferret beneath him was impassive, save for the twitch of a frown. Bechtel felt a shiver. Drugaen Vikkars. The slaves only ever whispered when speaking of the King of Iron.

A paw latched around his throat, and the world suddenly spun. Pain crackled along his skull as the ferret fell atop him. Vikkars said nothing. He only tightened his grip.

Bechtel's pleas came out as hoarse wheezes. The echoes abandoned him as hot panic flooded his body. Spots of black mottled across the dark blur above him.

Suddenly, the pain ceased. Bechtel heaved in air hard enough to make him immediately sputter it back out. He rolled to his side, only to feel paws yank him up onto his limp feet.

"It's under control, Captain!" the guard shouted back to Whip.

"Get 'em back to their cells!" the rat captain snapped. For good measure, he cracked his namesake across the face of a struggling slave. "I'll deal with them later."

The room slowly emptied, the slaves all hooked back onto the guideline to the Drag. Several volunteers, including Laurence, followed them shortly afterwards, leaving only a smattering to pick at their remaining meals and the spoiled mood.

Hale fell into his chair with a deep sigh. His brow ached, but he resisted the urge to massage it as Whip approached him.

"Is this what you wanted? Hmm?" The rat flung a paw in the direction of the door. "A bloody circus show while you spit in Lord Cain's face?"

Hale gave in, nursing the ache spreading across his head. "Give your shouting a rest, Captain. I've had plenty for one night."

"This is why Lord Cain put us _both_ in charge. He can't possibly trust you on your own."

Hale smiled, then leaned forward. He procured his goblet and the untouched wine that had sat by Tope Benwrath.

"Believe it or not, Captain Whip, I think I will drink to that."

Whip did not take the offered drink, so the wildcat shrugged, dumped the stoat's wine into his goblet, and tilted his head back. As the wine struck his throat, he waited for every tone and touch of the fermented luxury.

Hale sputtered out the drink, slamming his goblet to the table. He caught his paws against the table's edge.

Whip folded his arms. "Drink slower, Administrator."

"Not that," Hale gasped. "There's something wrong with that wine."

Whip frowned, but picked up the goblet and held it to his nose. By his second sniff, Hale began to convulse.

"Fates alive, it's hemlock!" Whip caught the wildcat by the shoulders and turned to the nearest guard. "Wimmick! Fetch the doctor! Quickly!"

 **[End of Round Two]**


	15. Feathering

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Feathering**

 _By: Cuprica_

* * *

The midnight waves cut ribbons into yesterday's mural.

Crests broke upon the towering cliff face of Marshank's coast, removing strips of paint from sparring combatants. The murals rose as pictorial reports of recent trials lost and won, with billowing marsh flowers framing the lot. On clear mornings, sailors passing Marshank's coast might see hempen ropes reaching weblike across the cliff's face. Closer still, they might see a rake-thin vixen with splotched fur scrambling from perch to perch as she painted.

Tubs of paint hung along the lines behind her, and a series of collapsing poles provided the brush reach the artist could not achieve on her own. A speckled bandana kept the breeze and paint from her ears, and padded leggings kept the stone from scraping her knees away. Still, she pressed against the cold, salted rock, and hummed while she worked. From dawn to sun's full rise, she filled in the missing chunks of rat warriors and marsh flowers, all gargantuan and spanning on the rock.

The warning shone clear across the seas: you've reached a land of war; you've reached a land of beauty and combat.

Only three colors created the mural: the harsh reds of swamp flowers, the stark white from the inland marble pits, and a cutting violet from strange minerals found within the deepest mires. The vixen, satisfied with her work, scrambled back into her crevice of the cliff face, a den well beyond the reach of fort and sea.

Cuprica's fur ran heavy with the three colors of Marshank. Smock and breeches shucked, she donned a sleeveless tunic, a coil of rope for binding her overgrown tail, and a clatter of wooden bangles for each wrist. Her cot and wardrobe stood as plain intruders against a phantasm of paintings along the walls. Calendars of Cuprica's design, sketches of dresses and hats, and ever onward the stone tunnel filled with skulks of painted foxes reveling in flowers.

One broad, strong fox rose from the center of the painted fields. No details adorned the tribe's avatar, and desperate brushstrokes saw the figure's face blurred beyond recognition. She paused before her creation and placed a paw upon its chest. For too long she pressed; for too long she searched for the face beneath the chaos of brush strokes.

A chiming of bells, near hundreds on a silken rope along the den's ceiling and leading to the entrance. Cuprica wove through her den's network with a candle in paw, jumping up rock shelves and half-collapsed rubble with ease.

Frost-crusted marsh heather hid her den's entrance, which popped out atop the bluff within sight of the fabled fort city. A stoat of girth and easy manner leaned against a cart. The courier spit out a wad of blackened leaves, and helped the much younger beast from her hole with a heave.

"Fast work," said Courier Wick. "Faster than yesterday. No extra paint to take back, right?"

Cuprica only nodded as she paced about the cart. Wick obliged the eager lass and dug out her payment: a personal assemblage of fresh hogquill brushes, pots of personal dyes, and three bolts of silk. The vixen stuffed her muzzle against the fabric, breathing in the last whiffs of perfume and foreign spices the shipping holds did not drain.

She sniffed and rubbed the fabric for minutes, but Wick did not leave. The ritual demanded the stoat deliver the painter's payment and leave for the fort city, to return tomorrow with more supplies. Yet he remained, fiddling with his belt pouches for more blackened weed.

"Lord Cain says it's time." A spit of tar-like saliva as Wick put on his cart harness. "Today."

A passing sparrow shrieked its mockery from on high, summoning the first few flakes of the day's snowfall. Cuprica's voice cracked, and trembled in time with the quiver of her heavy lids.

"Y-you'd make me?"

"No. Not paid to make anybeast do anything." Wick yawned and secured the last harness belts. "But I'm paid to report, and your next visitors won't ask nice."

"But...aren't the cliffs enough? They're so pretty; so high. He shouldn't want more. Couldn't."

"Cups...really, what did you expect? A wildcat never forgets its prey. He'll have his arena remade. I mean, you signed the contract."

"He promised a year! It hasn't been a year..." She danced in place a little. "...has it?"

"It's been a year."

The painted calendars marked all of Cuprica's most important days. Days when the naval patrols swept by her murals, dazzling in their uniformity and stark sails against the morning light. Or better still, when the marshes flooded and drove wild folk to the plains for games, rituals, and trade, where she could wear her best silks and dance in the fields with beasts too wild for clothing or word.

Yet, with the first fall of snow, she realized Cain's contract received no such marker. She'd blocked the signing away, blanched from her memory with the snows of that awful day.

 _Come back, come home. It is not freedom you are buying._

"Coming?" said Wick.

"...I'll come. Not now. I have to pack, and..." she played with her ear tips, which poked from her ill-dyed bandana, on realizing the heavy scent on the air came from forgetting the week's bath. "And other things."

"Please. Just don't. They'll lash me for letting you run."

"I won't run! I won't. I..." Cups dashed forward and gave the stoat a quick and shoulder-forward hug, a vixen scarecrow of sticks and feathers embracing a mass of dirt. "I'm sorry. Tell Cain I'll be there after lunch. No, for lunch. I promise."

She jumped into her den once again. The morning rolled away as she built a fire and boiled up a proper bath, picked through her wardrobe for the right outfit - a loose-cuffed, high-necked gown of linen and feral fur, hitched at the knee for the snow drifts - and assembled her treasures for travel. The hog brushes, of course, and the bottles of pigment wrapped in silk so they did not shatter, and...

At the bottom of her wardrobe sat an apron stained with grog instead of paint. Even a year and more away, she smelt the acrid tinge of ill-aimed vomit, spotted the fabric tears from eager claws, and tasted the hint of grease which billowed from Arbington's kitchens.

Cuprica left the apron, touched the vulpine avatar once more, and climbed from her den.

The few flakes of morning wove into a light, steady veil. Cuprica held her arms out as she wound across the boulder-strewn plains, the rolling stretch between the marshes and Marshank, Fort City. Miles remained between the coast and the main road, the vixen a slash of mottle against the climbing drifts. She studied the shapes of flakes which landed on her paws, letting the miles pass in her fascination.

Cuprica did not see the massive walls of Marshank loom as her feet carried her along the beaten road. She did not hear the gate guards ask for papers and purpose - though they let the strange, splotched vixen in before she collided with the closed gate.

Marshank, Fort City thrived at midday.

Duels for honor, for status, for absolute pleasure, broke up the ebb and flow of beasts at market, like stones in a stream. The merchants of old held up Marshank relics and "relics" from the days of Badrang, while the merchants of the day sold the heirlooms of the Crucible's fallen. Habit drew her senses towards the salt and fish of the docks, winding east down the bluff, but instinct pressed her deeper into the throng. She wove by pastry carts, ducked beneath beams carried by carpenters, and jumped over the thrusts and parries of young blades.

Many watched Cuprica dance along by her own music, for most feared one step too far would cut her life short.

Cuprica survived the main street and halted before the central fountain. Beasts from all across the world - the fennec eunuchs of the Firesands, the friars of Mossflower, and Sampetra pilgrims with their glistening scales - etched memorials for their brethren into the massive fountain's lip. Others tossed coins into the ever-flowing waters as small prayers for the Crucible's fallen. Cuprica sat beside a cluster of white mice in prayer.

"Oh no." The mice returned to their rites on realizing Curprica didn't speak with them. "I don't know where to go."

Courier Wick never mentioned a meeting spot, and she didn't ask. The uncertainty brought a focus she kept aside for so many months, and the city breathed alive before her. The spin of tourists, battle-ready beasts, and desperate locals looking for coin, blurred in shape and color, until all swirled about Cuprica as yolk against the dye. Between the blurs, she recognized The Stands, home of Marshank's affluent beasts and Arbington, the city's best inn. The road to Alder's Reach, a district where smiths and carpenters worked endlessly on armor and weapons for games and judgment.

Cuprica shrunk and huddled against her knees as the city swirl drew close. The music of her distance faded, and all the colors darkened by measure as reality stole all rhythm and shade from her mind.

Justice Road stood clear from the black swath, the main street leading to the Crucible's gates. Lord Cain might wait there, yet…

...another beast parted the darkened blur.

"I had not believed Wick. But here you are."

Sorel Rendai did not inflect, but spoke as though commenting on incorrect mathematics. Cuprica need not look, but midweek meant the male fox wore a gray shirt and black slacks, perhaps suspenders to see them secure, and all adorned with the leather pouches and hanging tools of a master carpenter and shipwright. She peeked from behind her knees and found her "guess" correct save an additional flatcap.

Beneath the flatcap she saw nothing. The swirled blur of his face, the infinite brushstrokes of her frustration, let her see only a broad, strong tod with his existence smeared from the neck up. Yet he spoke, and folded his arms across his chest, and smelt of salt and the imported figs he kept in his leftmost pouch.

"Cain is at Arbington," said Sorel. "He thought it fitting."

Cuprica twitched as the whiff of kitchen grease hit her nostrils. She jumped from her fountain perch to run by Sorel and into the crowd. The carpenter's sure grip enveloped her arm, cut her off before she escaped, pulled her too close to hate.

"Let me g-go," said Cuprica.

"Please. Do not run again."

"I didn't run the first time!"

"You left without warning. You have been gone for a year. You do not call that-?"

"You just-"

Nearby beasts turned on the pair in concern, and Sorel let her arm free. She did not run, but spun her pack so the bulk remained between herself and the hulking tod.

"I am trying to help you; I have always tried to do so," said Sorel. "But you are being...difficult."

"...inwyh..."

"Louder."

"I never wanted your help."

For only a moment, the blur before Sorel's face collected. There stood a struck male, his whiskers kissed by ocean air, his fur a little gray at the tip, and his arms slack at his side as he broke against her verdict.

With a turn the blur returned, and he spoke over his shoulder as he retreated into the crowd.

"Then I will not keep you," said Sorel.

The midday chimes turned into the bellows of the afternoon bookies announcing Crucible results. The stall-holders selling the morning's snacks packed up and were replaced with vendors of robust fare. Roasted pheasant, thick stews of winter vegetables, and the familiar yet foreign scent of a simple potato and meat pie...

Only then did Cuprica wake.

She saw the clear path away and through the front gates, back across the plains, and into her den. A few steps towards escape closed her throat, made her choke. A bristle and snarl banished the temptation, the thoughts of Sorel's grip still throbbing on her arm. She drank from the metal-laced fountain - to the horror of those around her - wiped her muzzle on the front of her dress, and made for Arbington.

In a fort city of marsh brick and dark granite, Arbington rose white and regal at the center of The Stands. Old habits saw Cuprica approaching the alleyway entrance instead of the front doors. All the scents and colors remained: the chip of paint where daily refuse stacked against the alley's end, the dim filter of light from the terraced rooftops above, and the trickle of runoff from the main street - for even the best parts of Marshank bled.

Cuprica knelt at the alley's center, breathed in the shape and flow, and assembled them in climbing colors within her mind. The trash was only heaving thorn bushes against the ruin of an oaken inn. The alley trickle became the brook of a larger stream bubbling in the distance. And the skies above...

"Mrs. Rendai? The one and only!?"

Reality popped back into place and Cuprica jumped. Chef Emery was too thin, too tall, even for a ferret. The bands of the elder's pelt played off the high-collared smock, and an array of tasting spoons jingled along his chest pocket. He noodled over, and pulled Cuprica into a hug.

"My baby, my darling!" said Emery.

The ferret kissed her bandana and held her out at arm's length, like a doll.

"Hehe...I missed you too, Em," said Cuprica.

"Of course you would. Who could forget _Emery!?_ " A swoon for her enjoyment, but only for a moment before gravity kicked in. "Arbington is not the same without you, but _please_ tell me you're not coming back."

"No...no I'm not. I. Well. I am. A little."

"No! Absolutely not! You are better than a porter, my sweet. You cannot have your job back. I forbid it!" The ferret - as deadly serious as his wide mouth allowed - leaned in. "Mr. Rendai is treating you well, no? You look like you have not eaten in weeks."

"Um." She counted on her claws. "Two days, but...well...he's not _entirely_ to blame…"

Emery jumped up before the vixen could even finish.

"I will wear him as a coat, this I swear!"

Cuprica put a paw on Emery's shoulder and kept him from charging down the alley and towards the docks. The ferret meant well, but she knew brick-house Sorel would tear him apart like dock taffy. Emery feigned resistance, and quickly snapped back into his welcoming routine.

"Fine. For you? I'll let him live." He ushered her towards the kitchen door. "But you're eating, pup. I will _not_ take no for an answer."

All of the vixen's hesitation died as the plume of Arbington's kitchens enveloped her senses. Pots skittering on a line of woodstoves, tables strewn with vegetables diced into zig-zags and cascading rings, and a steady stream of servers and porters bringing dishes in and out of the main dining room's two-way doors. Emery pulled a giant fish from the oven, ribbed and stuff with herbs, skin crackled and ripe for consumption. Cuprica melted within, slathering for the first time in weeks over the seafood before her.

"Oh no no no," said Emery. "I know that look. Don't think I've forgotten the Smoked Trout Incident."

"...but there were so many. I only took a few…"

"A few dozen! I'm _still_ paying off that shipment. I'm _still_ finding bones you hid in the cellar."

Cuprica dipped her muzzle and pulled her bandana over her eyes in embarrassment, but both were chuckling as the chef tussled her ears free. She danced a little in place as the ferret issued orders to his assistant chefs, transferred some pans, and put the finishing touches on the big fish platter.

"No, we'll find you a nice salad to start with - a little overripe cheddar and walnuts I think," said Emery. "This beauty right here? This is for Lord Cain. He's throwing himself a party, and…"

Emery's gossip faded with Caprica's appetite, and her fish-induced rapture, and all the color and scent and joy filling Arbington's kitchens. Without hearing or knowing, she stepped backward towards the alley's door as the colors condensed to black once more.

The snap of claws.

"Cups? Cuppy? There you are; where'd you go?" Emery swept Cuprica onto a prep-line stool and pressed a mug of tea into her paw. "Okay, I don't know _what_ is going on, but you stay right there. You're going to tell me about it when I get back, Mrs. 'I just vanish from Emery's life for no good reason!'"

Emery patted her ears once more, and wound his way down a floor hatch and into the cellar holds for some 'welcome back' wine. Cuprica moved only when sure the loving but insistent ferret was out of sight. She floated to the kitchen door, dammed the tide of waiters and porters, and stuck her muzzle through.

She'd only met Lord Cain once. His scribe held a stack of papers back then, and pointed from line to line where she was meant to sign. The wildcat rarely spoke then, and only smiled wide when the contract was sealed.

The Cain at the dining table rose large and indulgent, a golden feline in the throes of feasting. An assembly of guards framed the elaborate hall, and not another party sat at the dozens of other tables. The Lord of the Crucible bought the establishment out, and invited a half-dozen of his personal scribes and accountants who all dealt in whispers over their wine glasses - the very fate of Marshank's economy in the paws of middling shrews and eager weasels.

Then the blur.

Sorel Rendai sat at the far end from Cain, eating and drinking nothing, speaking with nobeast. Cuprica thought herself spotted, but the normally observant tod only fixed on the tablecloth before him, and, in flickers, at the empty seat beside him.

Again, he would hold her still.

Cuprica tried retreating, but an eager servant crashed into her backside and sent her sprawling into the dining room. The host of political beasts gawked at the pile of vixen on the floor, untangling herself from her own skirt. Cain drank deep from his cup and clapped his approval once the vixen rose.

Sorel only stared, as best as Cuprica could tell through the blur.

"The guest of honor has arrived!" Cain boomed. He rose - his toadies following suit - and gestured at the empty seat beside the still-sitting Sorel. "This is the one, gentlebeasts. Her murals alone increased port traffic a good 15% the last few quarters. We even had GUOSIM with holds full of hay! Any excuse to marvel at the cliffs."

The toadies offered polite applause as they joined their master in dissecting the slip of a vixen. From the line of servants, a gentle otter maid touched Cuprica at the elbow and guided her to the waiting seat.

The scent and heat of Sorel assaulted her immediately - ocean salt, chalk, and the smoldering embers of sodden marshwood. The tod did not speak, or move, or even turn as Cuprica sat, yet she trembled enough for her wooden bangles to click as she gripped her skirt.

Cain snapped his claws and the scribe at his right produced a towering pile of parchment. Cuprica recognized her contract at once. Nearly an hour spent one year ago, blitzing through the stack for every spot her mark was required.

"Drink? Fish? No, of course not. I know you've no mind for the finer things, my dear," said Cain. "We'll make this fast and plain: I've given you leash and protection, now you'll bring my Crucible to life. Agreed?"

The wildcat skimmed over the contract as he waited for Cuprica's response. None came. She only focused on the empty plate before her, trying to churn the blue filigree decorating the rim into the eggshell of the porcelain, into the red of the wine spill beside the plate, into a sunset she could rise and escape into, yet-

"Cain speaks to you," said Sorel. "Answer."

Sorel. The colors ripped away. For a moment, she stood in their home on the shore, before the Big Window which caught the dawn. For a moment, clothes and sheets littered the floor, slashed apart by her own claws. For a moment, noise and screams and savage dreams.

She managed a quiet reply which silenced the table.

"I don't want to. T-thank you, but no."

One of the toadies dropped their fork, laden with a chunk of fish. Cain set down his papers and leaned forward.

"I think you've misunderstood, Mrs. Rendai." Cain speared a chunk of fish and brought it onto his plate. "This is not a request. The contract you signed compels you to hold your end. And there are consequences to breaking a contract in this city."

"But, I don't want this. I-I just want to go home. I just want the sun, and sea, and a fam-"

"I gave you Marshank's largest canvas."

Another chunk of fish, another pouring of wine.

"I kept you fed and clothed."

A gnash and swig.

"And I concealed you from your _charming_ husband for one year's time."

Cuprica shrank into the collar of her dress, trembled as a babe caught in the snow, but the feral furs lining its shoulder did not shield her from Cain's command, the beating of Sorel's heart.

"You will return with my guard to the Crucible. You will paint its walls as you did the coast. And you will be permitted to leave only when I am satisfied."

"No...no, please! Not again. I won't be trapped again!"

Cuprica's chest heaved though she sat erect. The lap of her gown tore between her gnashing claws, only picking up in fervor when Sorel raised a paw to still her. And yet his paw stopped, and withdrew, and her pitch subsided.

Cain sniffed at a cheese-roasted date on the end of his fork.

"She calls my home a trap before she's arrived," said Cain. "Perhaps an intimate tour of the Crucible's games will show you otherwise. It will see your debt cleared too...should you survive."

The colors died; the screams returned. The accountant on her left caught a plate to the side of the head. In her sprint, the waiters at the ready broke before her and scattered across the floor like wooden playthings. And when the Crucible guards caught her arms, kept her aloft until her screaming cracked to nothing, she sobbed and heaved.

"Artists," said Cain. "Jests are lost on them."

Cain dabbed at his fangs with a silk napkin, and gestured at Sorel who only stood with his fists clenched, but otherwise motionless.

"Mr. Rendai, I trust you can keep your wife in line as you join the renovations."

The gray tide of Sorel ebbed as the response flowed automatic, mechanical.

"I can only try," said Sorel.

"And try you must," said Cain. "I'd hate to see such a _happy_ couple broken by throwing her into the debtor's games. Such an utter waste of talent as well."

The collective of guards bore the worn and winded Cuprica like a hog destined for the spit. She wriggled only slightly, and through the blur of her tears she saw Sorel's face clear.

Stone, salt, and a smear of moisture on his cheeks.

"Take her away," said Cain.


	16. Abide With Me

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Abide With Me**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _I am not sure why it was called the "Elders' Pyre." Hale spoke of disparate tribes united by the practice, but even under his guidance, I highly doubt the Crucible saw the same rite as performed by Hale's ancestors. The history and culture of the Northlands is as expansive and tangled a mess as any tribe of shrews, but Martin knows how relentlessly Brother Hedwyn has pestered me to write further on the North. Perhaps after this tome is compiled, I shall._

 _Hale was correct in one way, however. The Elders' Pyre was a purifying flame. Understand I do not mean the rite itself, nor the battles, but rather that its commencement heralded a great upheaval within the Crucible. I don't believe anyone understood exactly what their actions would lead to. Not Hale. Not the rebels. And certainly not Bechtel._

~.~.~.~

Dawn's fragile beginnings painted the shoreline red under the screams of the rat. The hollow scrape of claws against wood ushered the beast up the scaffold, while below, the throng of slaves watched. The guards at either end held the struggling creature still as Deputy Wimmick stepped to the edge.

"Let this be a lesson t' each of you." The beast's voice rang cold and final over the huddled masses. "No matter what you do, Marshank stands strong. It will outlive each of you."

"Please!" The rat's raw sobs broke. "I didn't do anything!"

"Remove his collar."

The rat flung himself against the iron grip of the guards. "Please!"

The clatter of the shackle prompted winces from the gathered beasts below.

"On his knees."

The guards shoved the sobbing rat down, the waiting slab of stone muffling his continued sobs. Scattered pleas rose from the crowd to petition the rat's life. Wimmick hefted his sword.

Bechtel flinched at the crack of steel and bone. He sent no sounds out to confirm the rat's fate—the sudden, deafening silence said everything.

"T' any other traitors: remember this moment," Wimmick said. "We'll always find you. Be grateful for the honor of the arena, or you'll suffer the same fate."

The crowd began to disperse. Bechtel stumbled blindly through the mass, seeking some dark shelter away from prying eyes and listening ears. Halfway to the Drag, a paw on his wing stopped his retreat.

"Hey, where are you off to?"

Bechtel swallowed, trying to keep the bile down. "Not now, Ander."

No mischievous grin poked at Ander's lips. The weasel regarded him flatly. "No, I think now is a good time. Look, I don't want it to be my neck up there, and in case you forgot, _I'm_ the reason it wasn't your flappy self up on those gallows. You're welcome, by the way."

Bechtel stood up straighter and clicked for any nearby beasts.

Ander rolled his eyes. "Oh come now, it's not hard to piece it together. With that stint you asked me to pull last night, it's obvious you had something to do with this." He poked a claw into Bechtel's chest. "You're lucky, by the way, that they only pulled me aside to question me. 'What do you know?!' they asked. 'I haven't the faintest idea!' I said. And that was the absolute truth." He leaned closer. "So what is it I don't know, Beck? How did you manage to get poison? Who's your supplier?" He narrowed his eyes. "...it's the cook, isn't it? Always knew she was slapping poison in those meals. Must have a whole stock somewhere."

Bechtel wrenched his wing free from the weasel. "I _killed_ someone today, Ander! Don't you get it? That should have been me up there, but I got off scot-free!"

"So be glad you have pals like me to keep you breathing."

"You don't understand! He was one of us! Marshank, the volunteers, the guards—they're the enemy, and I just let them kill him. I'm responsible for this. _Me._ "

Ander clicked his tongue. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. Did you ever see Ryetail fight? That rat was headed to the grave the moment he stepped in here. I dare say you did him a favor by giving him a quick death." He draped an arm across Bechtel's shoulder. "What matters is that his fate doesn't happen to _us._ You and me? We're survivors. And you, my batty friend, have more than meets the eye. I want to know _everything_. …especially since your first fight is tonight."

The nauseating whirl halted. "…what?"

"You don't know? They handed these out this morning." He pulled a parchment from his shirt and unfurled it with a flick. "Despite the poor administrator's _sudden_ and _mysterious_ bout of 'oh no, I've been poisoned!', it appears that the fights are proceeding as planned." Ander tapped the page. "And look at that, yours is tonight."

Bechtel ripped the page from the weasel. He let out a string of clicks, the echoes feeling at the rhythmic press of letters upon the page. It was a fruitless endeavor, however—he could barely see the scratches of ink, much less understand or verify them.

"So, you know, _just in case,_ I'm thinking you could let me in on whatever plan it is you have. Don't let the ship go down just because she doesn't have her captain." He shrugged. "Tiltsnout used to say something like that."

Bechtel stumbled backwards. A weight seemed to press upon his temples. "I… I need to go."

The weasel shouted his objections, but they faded quickly behind the bat's pounding footsteps. He clicked in-between every shallow breath—past the Drag's waiting shadows, through the mess hall's empty chamber, and onto Beggar's Coast. Morning-fouled guards shot him ugly looks as they ushered tool-burdened slaves to the day's assignments. He ignored them until he found her, trailing the line with a shovel slung across her shoulder.

"Molly!"

She glanced his way, then spoke briefly to the pair of guards behind her. They nodded, lowering their weapons at Bechtel's approach. She broke out of earshot from the group, though she continued to head in the same direction.

"Boss, I've been looking all over for you. Did you know about this?" He held the paper to her. "They scheduled my fight for tonight. _Tonight_!" He drew in a shuddered breath. "I'm not prepared for this. We need to train, and harder than ever. Do you remember that rolling trick? I think I've got it this time, and you can…" He trailed off when her flat expression remained, and her gaze set only in front of her. "What is it? I know they scheduled you for the morning shift, but I need you, Boss. I can't do this on my own, and I was thinking that—"

"What happened, Bechtel?"

For the first time, he noted how tightly she gripped the shovel. How heavy her footsteps fell.

"What's going on, Boss?"

"Hale is alive."

Bechtel's fur rippled. "W-what? I thought that—"

"He survived. Barely. Quite the miracle, they say." She turned to him, and like a sheet pulled away, her expression shuddered. The corners of her mouth curled and the skin under her eyes spasmed. "What happened, Bechtel?"

Her words crawled from her mouth like critters scattering from the shadows. The chill in the air gripped at Bechtel.

"Boss, I-I did my best. I used the entire vial and everythi—"

"It wasn't enough!" she snarled. Bechtel shrunk back, eyes wide. "And now, the entire plan may be in jeopardy!"

Bechtel searched for words, for some flicker of familiar expression in her face to ground him. Neither came.

"I've been here for eight years, Bechtel. These monsters have taken everything from me, but I played along with their game. Even made some of them respect me, like a prized doll to put up on their mantelpiece." Her wingtips clasped tight. "It can't be for nothing."

"Boss, we can still—"

"Do what? Kill Hale? He's stashed away in Marshank now, and Cain has set up an impenetrable army by him. Do you think there's any possible way to kill him now?"

"Why does it matter so much?"

Before the echoes spoke, she whirled on him—a towering shadow blocking the light from the rising sun. "Because it was the plan! They said this was the only opportunity to take down Hale, and now that chance is ruined, because of you!"

Bechtel's heel caught on a stray bit of rubble, sending him to the sand and snow. Fear and panic flooded his body as he stared up at Molly. Her wings trembled. Her breaths came out uneven, like frayed sackcloth left to the winds of a summer storm.

He reached up to her. "Molly, I—"

Before he could finish, an approaching stomp of feet drew both their attentions. A fox strode from the line of slaves, many pouches jingling about his belted waist. He stopped in front of Molly.

"Back in line."

"I spoke with the guards. They gave me permission to—"

"Now." There was no anger to the fox's voice. He spoke as if noting the weather, yet a heaviness rested underneath every word. "Today's earthworks are dangerous. If you do not obey me in all commands I cannot guarantee your safety." His gaze flicked to Bechtel. "There will be time for distractions later."

Molly drew in a breath, her posture straightening. She nodded sharply and moved to rejoin the departing slaves, stopping only to cast a final glance at Bechtel. "Good luck with your fight."

Bechtel watched her retreating form, his chest tightening the further she went. Soon, he realized the fox remained.

"An unattended slave attracts attention. Tell me your purpose and I will send you to the right taskmaster."

"There's no taskmaster for my purpose." Bechtel snarled, staring still at the slave line. "To fight vermin like you."

"Childish." The fox's countenance remained unaffected, even as he turned his attention to Bechtel in full. A pause, and a slight tilt of the head. "You have found significance in her. Give her time and truth - anything else is disrespect."

The moment of profundity was severed as quickly as it had begun. The fox returned to the slave line and began to issue instructions.

Heart full of anger and confusion both, Bechtel spun on his heel and made for the training grounds. He had a fight to survive.

~.~.~.~

The fog of sand and stone washed red from the steel-caged pyre. Flecks of snow fell tender; winter's wrath abated this night. The crowd did not roar, and in their hush, the darkness became light.

Bechtel's ear twitched at the crackle of chain in the dark beyond, but the echoes told him clearly of the morning star carving a trail in the sands. The stocky ferret across the arena wore a predatory grin even now, while both beasts still hid in the shroud of the arena's edge.

Bechtel gripped his dagger tighter. It was a small, pitiful thing in comparison to the opulent choices afforded by the armory, but it suited his grip.

 _A weapon is only as good as its wielder. A needle that cuts deep enough will beat a thousand empty strikes of a warhammer._

He ignored the urge to scan the crowd once more for Molly. His muscles burned with her lessons, but her absence sent a tremor of fear through him. Gritting his teeth, he strode forward into the light of the pyre.

The crowd cheered at his approach. From the dark, the ferret shouted something that turned their excitement to laughter. Bechtel ignored them all, clicking to the steady beat of his footsteps. He passed the pyre, circled it until he stood between the flame and his opponent, then he waited.

 _Don't be too eager to fight. They want you dead just as much as you do. Be patient, and wait for your opportunity._

Confusion mottled across the ferret's face, though bravado returned to reign quickly. The ferret hefted his weapon and stepped from the darkness with a jeer. The crowd laughed again. Bechtel remained still.

The ferret's first tentative steps faded to a steady swagger, footfalls striking with an almost musical rhythm. The morning star dangled beside him.

The crowd began to chant. Not a single, unified call, but a hundred different mantras all crashing against each other. The echoes withered under the assault, and Bechtel drew in a deep breath. He envisioned the ferret's footsteps, counted their rhythm. Then, when he heard the jostle of chain, he launched upward.

A sharp click told him briefly of the morning star crashing into the sand beneath him, and of the surprise registering on the ferret's face. Bechtel dove for the edge of the arena and latched his claws into the stone walls. He held back a cry, feeling the wound on his wing tear and seep once more.

 _You're going to get hurt. What matters is that you live._

He heard the ferret's string of curses barely over the continued chanting of the crowd. He steadied his breathing and scaled further up the wall. The slam of the morning star punctuated the ferret's demands for satisfaction, drawing closer and closer.

He pictured the beast approaching, imagined the same grin etched upon their face. The slam and roar of the beast neared further. The dagger trembled in his grip.

Then, when the sounds came from just below him, Bechtel clicked. The ferret craned his neck up at the sound.

 _Do anything to survive._

Bechtel fell from the wall.

~.~.~.~

The wad of bloody gauze smacked wet against the floor.

"Until it heals completely, I said! And then you come in here, scab all twisted up and bleedin' at me." Truson tutted, stomping over to the medical cabinet and scratching his wiry chin. "You should be glad Hale pulled through and assigned me t' this flummoxed game of his. Those dill-sniffers in the Drag don't know salve from spit."

Bechtel said nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, injured wing stretched across a shelf. Blood streaked down from the tear, crusted around the frayed membrane.

Truson returned with a small pot of stringent-smelling liquid. He dabbed a cloth into the pot, then set to work cleaning the wing. Bechtel hissed at the touch of the cloth and tensed.

"Your first fight?" Truson asked. " 'Sides the Cullin', that is."

Bechtel nodded, then winced once more.

"You'll get used to it." He tapped Bechtel's chest, where a sticky smear of blood stained the rich poncho an even darker red. "That yours?"

Bechtel recalled the dagger plunging into the ferret's neck. "No." The scream turning garbled as blood sputtered from the beast. "Just theirs."

"Get that to the wash soon as you can. Patched up beasts before who ended up in the dirt just from bloomin' infection."

"How can you stand it?"

Truson glanced his way. "Stand what?"

"Your job. Healing these beasts." Bechtel gritted his teeth. "They deserve to die. Every single volunteer, and guard, and beast who sits by and just lets this happen." A stab of pain prompted a yelp from the bat.

"Keep still," Truson said with a quick slap on the bat's shoulder. "Now: go on. I want t' hear where this goes."

Bechtel gritted his teeth. "Did you help Hale last night?"

Truson set the rag aside and reached for a balm. "Beasts know my skill in Marshank, but I'm not that good. I stabilized Hale until the physicians came."

"Why? Why didn't you do anything? Hale is your enemy! You could have ended that miserable creature's life, and we'd all be the better for it!"

Truson shot a glance over his shoulder. Down the hallway of the medical wing, the guards and apprentice healers engaged in chortling banter. Lewd jokes about the dead or soon-to-be dead, Bechtel reckoned.

"No such thing, lad." Truson turned back, slathering pawfuls of balm onto the wound. "Beasts here are just beasts. They don't have time for enemies or friends. Too busy lookin' after themselves."

Bechtel recalled the change he had seen in the hare during their last conversation. Tensing himself, he asked, "Then why are you scared?"

No twitch broke the languid medic's composure this time. In fact, he chuckled. "Watch those embers, lad. One day, they might catch." He set the balm aside and dried his paws off on a clean rag. "Got tired of bein' afraid a long time ago."

Bechtel scowled. A goodbeast lay somewhere within Truson, drowned and silenced after years of exposure to Marshank. His resentment flickered underneath his curiosity, and he decided upon a different approach. "How long? Have they imprisoned you, I mean."

"Been ages since I lost count. Was a spry young fool with a rippin' right hook, wot." A small smile curled the edge of the hare's lips. "I made some right fool mistakes, picked the wrong fights, and found my scut in Marshank. Daam Seftis ruled then. Fought a long, long time." He pulled a roll of bandages from a shelf. "Was a washed up, tired fool by the time Cain took over. He saw I was better at patchin' beasts up than cuttin' them down. Been healin' for… oh, fifty-five Cullings? Give or take a pawful."

"But you could make a difference!"

Truson paused his work and set the bandages aside. He sat on a nearby chair, clasped his calloused paws, and fixed Bechtel with a stare. "Lad, do you want t' know the greatest secret of Marshank?"

Bechtel nodded.

"No one cares about anyone. Not the volunteers, not the guards, and certainly not the slaves. I've seen beasts try t' make differences. Never works. Only makes a bigger mess for the rest t' live through."

Bechtel's shoulders tensed. "That's not true."

"No? I've seen how Quintock's taken t' you." At the bat's confused expression, the hare added, "Molly. What do you know about her, lad?"

Bechtel puffed his chest out. "She's brave. Strong. And she doesn't accept defeat." His gaze darkened. "Unlike you."

Truson made no reaction to the comment, slicing the bandage to length and moving to stitch it to the bat's wing. "Only one of her students is still alive, you know. Her very first, in fact."

Bechtel thought for a moment. "Bear."

"Aye. The Butcher." Truson shook his head. "Used t' be such a kind lad, believe it or not."

Bechtel flinched as the needle stabbed through his wing. "Used to?"

"Before Quintock got her paws on him. Different beast now. Nothin' but a cold killer. Not even Cain cares for him, anymore."

"Sounds good to me."

Truson paused his stitching and focused the bat. "You're not listenin'. Molly did somethin' t' that badger. Ever see him fight?"

The badger, stained with blood, sauntering away from an arena splayed with torn corpses flashed in Bechtel's mind. He couldn't suppress the grimace.

Truson grunted and returned to his sewing. "That was her doin'. After Bear started making a name for himself, winnin' fight after fight and butcherin' beasts like they were made of pudding, everyone started lookin' at Ms. Quintock in a new light. Got herself some prestige among the guards. Captain Whip even let her start trainin' newcomers on an official basis."

Bechtel snorted. "Sounds like she earned it."

"Oh, she did, and much more. At Bear's expense, and many other beasts who aren't with us anymore."

Bechtel scowled. "I recall you being the one who told me to do whatever it takes to make it to the next day." He tilted his chin up. "You refuse to make use of your own position to help others, then look down on the beasts that do? You sound like the charlatan here, not her."

Bechtel felt the hare's paws tighten, pulling the thread roughly through his wing. He resisted a grin at provoking a reaction.

Truson drew in a long breath before he spoke. "Look lad, I get it. It's hard t' survive in these parts. I know better than most. You look for comfort and hope where you can find it." Still sewing, he locked eyes with Bechtel. "But Quintock? She doesn't care about you. I dunno what hope she's been feedin' you, but trust me, there ain't any t' find here. You're just a tool t' her, same as Bear and the rest."

Bechtel met Truson gaze, and hoped his expression burned with as much disgust as he felt within himself. "Are you done?"

Truson's whiskers twitched. He stepped back from the bed and dusted his paws. "Aye. All fit an' proper."

Bechtel didn't spare a moment to check over the hare's work. He shoved himself from the bed and left the infirmary with only the irregular click to issue his departure.

~.~.~.~

Bechtel stomped his way across Beggar's Coast, sand flicking up with every step.

 _What does that old fool know? He's amoral, feckless, underhanded, and… and completely senile! He must have taken more than a dozen blows to that hollow-skulled head of his._

With evening's respite before curfew, the beach filled with wandering slaves. They shot the bat looks flavored by sundry emotions, but Bechtel huffed louder at their presence and marched towards the fissure carved in the cliffside. The glow of torchlight welcomed the bat into the Drag, his footsteps slapping hard against the uneven stone beneath.

 _All lies. I know Molly better than him. She's the whole reason I'm not dead tonight. As if Truson could teach me anything about keeping myself alive in this pit of Hellgates._

He clicked and looked for Ander, hopeful that the weasel could act as a sound-sponge for the pent-up rage boiling in Bechtel's chest. Besides the guards – and a vixen swiping a paintbrush against the far wall of the Drag – he found only a dozen slaves rested within the Drag, most favoring crippling wounds. With precious little free time left to the slaves for the night, it made sense that the weasel – and any beast with a working pair of legs – wouldn't be found in this miserable cave.

Growling to himself, Bechtel plopped down in the middle of the Drag and folded his wings tightly.

 _…_ _I haven't ever seen Molly so mad, though. She's usually so… understanding._

He snorted at an itch crawling up his nose.

 _It's not like I blame her, though. I failed. I did my best, but it wasn't good enough._

The itch remained. He dug his claws into his nose, scratched to get rid of the prickling.

 _It's never good enough! There's always something wrong, and nothing ever goes right! It's Cain's fault, and Hale's, and Whip, and the guards, and this horrible, evil place!_

A sting of pain stayed his claws, and a moment later he tasted blood. The itch was gone, but in its place was a fresh tenderness and pain.

Forcing a sigh, Bechtel cradled his forehead against his wingtips. The world went dark, but when the darkness gave him no comfort, he found himself humming. The melody fell easily from his lips, easing the tightness of his brow from his face as he touched upon old memories.

 _The open door loomed before him like the great maw of a sleeping monster. His trembling echoes told him of the grass and trees beyond, but above awaited a fathomless void, eager to swallow him up into its depths._

 _"_ _F-Father, please don't make me go. You promised only when I was old enough."_

 _"_ _And so you are! In honor of your Nameday – and taking one step closer to becoming a proper goodbeast – I thought I'd show you the orchard."_

 _"_ _But I don't need to go. I can see it from here, if I click my tongue hard enough."_

 _"_ _Nonsense, my son. There's something about walking amongst the trees that just can't be appreciated from a doorframe." Atrus plucked his corduroy jacket and long-scarf from the old coat hanger. "I can't very well keep you cooped up in this house all your life, now can I?"_

 _Bechtel considered this with great severity. "…can't you?"_

 _A smile tickled Atrus' moustache as he slipped into his jacket. "Bechtel, do you know what all of your heroes had in common? Matthias, Ruska, Tamello?"_

 _Bechtel hugged his half-finished copy of_ A History of Skippers _tighter. "They were brave?"_

 _"_ _They were all, at one point in their life, very scared. But they didn't stop just because they were scared. And that, my boy, was what made them brave."_

 _Bechtel's head drooped low. "But… they weren't like me. They could actually see…"_

 _Atrus knelt down. "It's okay to be scared, Bechtel. Each of us is scared of something."_

 _"…_ _even Martin was scared?"_

 _"_ _Especially Martin. I think of them all, he was the most scared." Atrus tapped Bechtel's nose, prompting a giggle from the child. "That's why he was the bravest of them all."_

 _Atrus draped the scarf around Bechtel's neck, tucking it into a tight knot before standing back up. "Come along, now."_

 _Bechtel remained still as his father stepped to the threshold. "B-but what if I get lost again? There's no roof, or walls, and I'll start getting dizzy and I won't know how to get back home and—"_

 _Bechtel stopped, his ears flicking at the sound of humming. Atrus smiled down at him, carrying the melody until the tension eased from the child's shoulders._

 _"_ _Do you remember that song?"_

 _Bechtel smiled. "You used to sing it all the time."_

 _Atrus nodded. "And when you had trouble learning how to see with those special eyes of yours, what did you do?"_

 _"…_ _I sang along until I learned."_

 _Atrus held out a paw. "Sing with me, Bechtel. I'll be with you the entire time."_

 _Bechtel detached a claw from his book, hooking it into his father's paw. Together, they strode from the house, and Bechtel joined his father in the rising melody._

 _"_ _O' joy, for the winter, O' joy, for the spring._

 _Greet the seasons well for all they come to bring._

 _For frost and warmth alike bring us to realize._

 _'_ _Tis but change among us, that guides and shapes our lives."_

Bechtel snapped upright, tearing himself from the memory before it traveled much further. Gasping, he quickly searched for something else to focus on. The ill slaves and meandering guards offered no distraction, but the vixen at the wall – painting unseen images – held his attention. The echoes spoke little of what marks she left upon the wall, whispering only of vague strokes and lines caressing the uneven rockface.

Ire built in his chest upon seeing her collarless form defiling what little abode he had to call "home," but it dwindled quickly against the ache covering his body. Unwilling to let his mind wander back to his past, he settled to merely watch and hum.

He soon found himself studying deeper the vixen's movements. The twirl of her tail as she stood up on one leg to daub a higher indention, the sway of her head as she ambled along the wall, the drift of her paws together as she painted—the motions of a dancer, not a painter. Every step flowed to a rhythm, and with a measure of fright, Bechtel realized she moved to the sound of his song.

He choked on the melody, and noted the slight hitch in the vixen's step. She continued on, however, dancing to a different, unheard song.

The world grew dark, but the panic from before did not return with it. Bechtel afforded himself a sigh, ignoring the chatter of guards and moans of slaves around him as his mind floated in the black.

Time passed unobserved in the dark. The worries and motions of the day dulled in the immediacy of his mind, slinking into the concerns of tomorrow. Then, accompanying the black, he felt a stroking sensation upon one of his wings. A moment later, the same feeling on his other wing, leaving both with a cool feeling. His brow furrowed at the feeling. It felt much like the blanket of sleep that falls over a tired beast, but his mind felt as sharp and ready as ever.

Curious, he clicked.

The sight of the vixen alone, crouched low and sticking her paw at his wing, sent Bechtel sprawling backwards. A paw latched around his shoulder, steadying him before he fell.

"Still. Be still. You've not yet dried."

"Get your paws off me at once, wretch!" Bechtel snapped, flicking the offending appendage from his person. "What were you doing?!"

"I'm painting. Is that not clear?" She blinked several times, her expression caught somewhere between distance and observance. Then, with a motion quite like but not at all a shrug, she dabbed her brush against her palette. "Hmm, your wings will not drink, but if I...yes. Yes. A stripe of blue across the top brings rain in the trail. Fascinating."

Bechtel yanked his wing back, flicking the wet paint from it. "I am not your plaything, or some jester ripe for the painting!"

Her brow tightened fractionally, then she nodded. Dabbing her brush fresh, she set her palette aside and stretched his wing out. "Not rain, then. Not for you. Rivers falling from above."

The sheer bravado and brazenness of the beast kept Bechtel still. He managed only the beginning of several offended sputters. When she began to hum, his fur rippled. It was a poor imitation, but he knew the melody.

Rage flooded through his veins. His limbs throbbed with demands for justice, but the prattle of nearby guards stayed his action. He settled to jab a claw into the vixen's pelt.

"That song is not yours," he snarled, whirling around towards the exit of the Drag.

"Is it yours?"

Bechtel stopped, his nostrils still flaring. He glanced over his shoulder. "What do you want with it?"

She knelt down and scooped her various instruments up. Some disappeared into pockets, others fit between her fingers. "It reminds me of spring. A warmth that can only be felt after a long cold has been weathered." Her tail flicked behind her in a shifting motion. Bechtel frowned when he recognized the rhythm. "Are there words? I would like to know the words, if you'll teach me."

Bechtel took a step towards her and readied his reply. A paw pulled him away, spinning him around to face a guard. His inner ire and rehearsed apology both faded away when he recognized the beast before him.

"This slave botherin' you, hmm?" August asked.

"Not yet, no. We were-"

"I'll see he's punished, be sure of that." August yanked Bechtel away from the vixen, leading him towards the exit.

Bechtel played along to the hedgehog's harsh conveyance, wincing and whimpering. Amidst it all, he whispered, "What's this about, August?"

"Not here. Molly sent me to fetch you." The hedgehog risked a glance his way. "It's important."

Bechtel forgot his act.

~.~.~.~

"Are you sure this is a good place?"

Bechtel regarded the empty halls of the Crucible with disgust. He wondered how much blood Badrang spilled to raise this fortress, and how much more it took to resurrect it. The stone walls held a malevolent air, and Bechtel couldn't shake the feeling that he was being observed, even though his echoes said otherwise.

"Beasts won't sniff out trouble when it's right on their snout," August returned with a grin.

Bechtel nodded, but continued to shoot dubious looks around himself.

"Not much further, hmm."

The statement drew Bechtel's mind from the dark surroundings. Remembering his last conversation with Molly, he twiddled his claws before him. "Did she… did she say anything about me?"

"Just that you were needed."

A smile poked at his lips. Bechtel held the words close to him, cherishing everything they did and didn't say.

 _Serves that blowhard hare right. She needs me! Just like I need her. I suppose I couldn't expect a landbeast to understand. I didn't even understand it, until I met her. It must be a feeling only bats have._

Confidence filled his steps as they continued onward. August stopped shortly afterwards, turning to a door and knocking once, thrice, then twice upon the door. Moments later, the latch clicked and the door swung open.

Bechtel saw Molly stand up from a modest table. Three other beasts sat at the table-a mouse, a fox, and a shrewmaid. None of them were collared, and he recognized only the mouse as the hoary-furred head architect over the Crucible's renovations.

"I… didn't realize there would be others," he said, his expression caught between wariness and surprise.

Bechtel jumped at a slamming behind him. August locked the door, pocketed the key, then hopped over to take his seat near the shrewmaid.

"I'm glad you're here, Bechtel," Molly said. The smile on her face brushed the alarm from his shoulders. "Please, have a seat."

Bechtel looked at the offered seat, placed straight across from Molly. "O-oh, I shouldn't. This is a seat of honor."

"That's the reason you're here, Bechtel." She leaned forward and clasped her claws. "It's time I started being honest with you."

Bechtel sat down immediately, ears perked.

Molly sighed, her smile fading to melancholy. "I must apologize for earlier today. I was unfair to you, when you only tried your best."

Panic rose within Bechtel, as if the disappearance of her mirth was a blight upon creation itself. "Nonsense, Boss! I blame myself too. I was a clumsy fool who—"

"No." She drew in a breath. "It's unfair of me to keep you in the dark, when you are risking so much." She gestured at the beasts around her. "First, I want you to meet those who have been essential in making this escape possible. I'm sure you recognize Master Orban and his apprentice Merrick. Thistlepaw helps to organize the fights, and has done much to keep the eyes of Cain from our work."

Unsure what else to do, Bechtel waved at the gathered beasts. The mouse nodded, the fox stared, and the shrewmaid's nostrils twitched.

"Unfortunately, not all can be present. The guards keep close watch of the slaves, and while one or two can slip through the cracks," she gestured at herself and Bechtel, "it is too big a risk to gather everyone. That, and our greatest benefactor cannot risk meeting with us here."

Bechtel quirked a brow up, recalling his conversation with Molly in the granary. "This isn't the first time you mentioned a benefactor. Someone on the outside gave you the poison, right?"

"And the whole reason we're together, lad," Orban chimed in. "He's how we found each other in the first place."

"Fancy he's never shown fit t' reveal his mug," Thistlepaw added, folding her arms.

"He's proven himself countless times," Molly interjected, "and has had ample opportunity to turn us _all_ in to Cain. His instructions have never led us astray, and tonight, he has contacted us again." She reached into coat and withdrew a parchment. "Master Orban, if you would."

The mouse took the proffered paper and adjusted his spectacles. "The letter reads: _'Well done. The guards are distracted, Cain's attention lies elsewhere, and the pieces are all in place. The tie is now. I have made arrangements. Next week, the Crucible will hold its most anticipated fight, and the guards will be blinded and ignorant. This is the moment we have toiled so hard towards. Rally your members. Take heart. Soon, you will all be free.'_ "

Orban set the letter down. "By the heavens. It's happening." He raised a trembling paw to his mouth, and looked to be on the verge of tears. "My dear Katalina, you will be free…"

The fox rubbed the mouse's back and whispered his congratulations, while even the hardened face of the shrew made way for a proud smile.

Bechtel felt his own heart leap. Freedom. After so much pain, so much tragedy, he would be free from this nightmare. He would return to a world that made sense, accompanied by the only beasts who could understand the horrors he survived.

His smile faltered as the image of Ander appeared in his head. The weasel had his share of problems, but the bat found an unlikely camaraderie in the vermin. A goodness lay there, perhaps only brought forth by the horrors of the Crucible, but he saw it clearly. And furthermore, he owed the weasel a debt.

He stood up from his chair. "Boss."

Molly tilted her head. "Yes?"

"I have a friend who I want to bring with me. He's dependable, and I trust him. If we're going to escape so soon, then—"

"No."

Bechtel paused. "…no?"

Molly sighed. "Bechtel, I need you to understand how important you are. It's why I had August risk bringing you here. I know what you're feeling—I've grown to care for many beasts here."

Truson's words of the beasts Molly had trained came to his mind—the beasts now dead.

"But you don't understand how many pieces have been set in order for this escape to succeed. Nothing, not even the slightest thing, can go wrong."

Bechtel chewed his lip. "But… surely it couldn't be so difficult as to bring _one_ other beast? I know there's a risk, but I _owe_ him this. He's done just as much for this escape as I have."

Her posture stiffened. "What does he know?"

"N-nothing!" Bechtel sputtered out. "He helped me as a favor, nothing more."

The severity of her expression faded, and she relaxed once more in her chair. "Of course. I should have known you wouldn't risk betraying us to another."

"Betraying? Boss, Ander wouldn't—"

"And what if he told another slave, who then told another? It would hysteria." She fixed him with her gaze. "Can you honestly tell me you trust this beast with your life? With the lives of these beasts around you? With my life? Do you know how many would die if your instinct is wrong?"

The room fell starkly silent. Bechtel heard the pounding of his heart, and realized that each eye in the room was fixed upon him. Some of them looked ready to pounce, should his answer not be deemed acceptable. And above it all, Molly's question loomed greatest.

Bechtel drew in a breath to answer, but no words came. Far too many of the weasel's words came to mind. The sneering lording on the _Lucky Locket_. The biting remarks overheard in the Drag. The prideful posturing during the prior night's feast.

"I need you to be focused, Bechtel," Molly said. "With this beast on your conscience, you aren't. Let him go, because others need you more right now. _I_ need you more."

Despite the warmth of her words, the joy and pride he had felt vanished. Bechtel slumped in his chair, a roiling void in his stomach.

"Hmm, Molly," August said, "we should leave. Curfew is soon, and they'll get suspicious."

She nodded. "Yes. You're right." She stood up from her chair. "Each of you, stay safe. You know your parts. We'll be in contact."

Chairs grinded back against the stone, and the beasts shuffled to the door, where August let them out. Soon, the room was quiet, save for a single pair of footsteps approaching him.

He felt Molly's claw loop around his shoulder.

"Bechtel, I need to know I can trust you."

Her grip on his shoulder was tight. He felt the same intensity from that morning radiating off of her. She did not ask—she demanded.

He managed a weak nod. She patted his back.

"You never disappoint me."

The journey from the clandestine room was a blind one.

Questions were asked when Bechtel and Molly showed up late to the roll-call, but August waved them off with a set of ready excuses.

Ander greeted him with his usual exuberance, launching into a colorful narration of the misadventures and humorous exploits of his childhood. Bechtel heard none of it.

He did not sleep that night.


	17. Adaptation

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Adaptation**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

Laurence brought Sondern down on his sparring partner, again and again, but it still made no difference. Now that the outer edges of the weapon were rounded, Sondern was forever ruined. The other volunteer raised both paws and verbally conceded defeat.

The otter chucked the blade to one side, then stormed to where a row of water tanks were positioned. While refilling the canteen looped to his belt, the mercenary scanned the room for his venting outlet, but Ansley was nowhere in sight. Only a handful of gladiators were out here in the snowy courtyard so early in the morning, practicing their art.

The only reason Laurence had bothered to come here was at the utter insistence by his trainer Ansley. That, coupled with the fact that he'd spent two long days locked up in the Windy Bastion on the orders of Captain Whip.

He snapped out of his reverie when a flurry of snowballs pelted him from behind. Ever since the feast incident one week ago, Laurence was not well received by his fellow gladiators. The perpetrators cackled and taunted the otter from a sound distance. He only shook his fist and gave a growl, but did not pursue them.

"No. I will not let their actions get to me, Sondern. That is exactly what they would want," said the otter, looking at the icicle blade in the snow.

From his peripherals, Laurence observed the deputy bluejacket approaching, followed by an escort of two guards. Touted between the pair was the prisoner ferret- Drugaen Vikkars. When he grew close enough, the rat hailed the mercenary.

"Frostfang Copeland. I'm sure you are already acquainted with your bondsbeast." Laurence locked eyes with the prisoner. The otter could not help but note he was still in the same ragged outfit from their very first encounter in the Drag.

Deputy Wimmick cleared his throat and again broke the uneven silence, "Prisoner Vikkars is given temporary access to these training grounds. He shall remain clapped to a metal ball for the entire time. Be warned: any offense he commits while in your care will be applied to you as well."

One of the guards unshackled the ferret's paws. "Your first fight will be tomorrow afternoon," reminded Wimmick, turning to follow after the other retreating bluejackets.

The otter was in the process of picking up his blade from the earth when Vikkars addressed him, "Why in the name of Faek did you choose me as your bondsbeast?"

Laurence held out his weapon. "They've ruined Sondern. They've ruined my sword."

Vikkars did not reach for it, and instead scrutinized the weapon from where it was with a chilling stare. He looked up and locked eyes with the otter. "I'm only going to ask you one more time: Why did you choose me for bondsbeast?"

"Because I hate this place, and everything it stands for." The mercenary regretted not choosing his words more carefully in the heat of the moment. He still did not know if he could fully trust this creature. "In the place I hail from, slavery is outlawed. My kingdom was in civil war for seven seasons over that transgression-"

"-So you chose me to make a statement about the societal standards of this place." said Vikkars, punctuating the moment of realization with a click of his tongue. He was not quite smiling, but the black-furred ferret was not scowling as much anymore. "Such a feckless gesture."

Laurence could feel the heat rising in his body. "And what exactly would you have done if you were in my place?"

"Instead of playing your cards close to the chest, your little stunt at the feast jockeyed you into a worse position than the one you started in. Every action you take in this life must end with you furthering your cause."

"How long's your arm been in that sling?" asked Laurence abruptly, using Sondern to point at the subject of the question.

Vikkars walked past him and drew a short sword from the weapons rack nearby before testing the weight. "Enough talk. You're my bondsbeast now, and I am not perishing here for any cause you are championing. Get your head together, we are practicing for tomorrow's doubles fight."

The otter raised his sword to signal he was ready to spar. To his surprise, the ferret was already within striking distance, blade slicing down and leaving an ugly mark on the side of Laurence's paw.

"Foul play," cursed the otter, dropping Sondern and gripping his injured paw. "That was uncalled for. Are you forgetting we have a fight tomorrow? If I can't use my sword arm..."

Laurence gingerly picked up the weapon once more and this time was ready for another lightning fast swing. He blocked it and stepped left, using the blunt weight of his blade to knock Vikkars off-balance.

The ferret stabbed his weapon behind him, though with only one arm to support himself, it looked as though he was about to fall on his back. Laurence watched concernedly, only to find Vikkar's short sword at his throat.

 _Frighteningly agile for his size,_ thought Laurence. _He always seems to make the most with every step and swing he takes. What an impressive aptitude._

"You are too forgiving of the enemy. Show no mercy," hissed Vikkars, pressing the blade harder before pulling it away.

Laurence was nettled by the comment. "I've been in wars, you know. You are supposed to be my training partner! My apologies for not treating my own ally as the enemy."

Before he could continue barking at his bondsbeast, the mercenary could hear the timid pawsteps from behind him. It was Ansley the bluejacket stoat.

"Frostfang. I… I need t' talk t' you- about something. In private. It's, er, about the fight tomorrow."

The mercenary was puzzled by the sense of agitation emanating from Ansley. He gestured toward his partner, "Drugaen is my new bondsbeast, so any news of the doubles fight would involve him too."

"Right then. Forget I said anything, 'tis nothing too important. I better get to seein' where them other volunteers went, I'll see ye tomorrer." Ansley scurried away once more, leaving the two to their own devices.

The otter did not reflect on the stoat's behavior in the slightest; he soon became solely focused on knocking his opponent flat on his back.

Despite the ferret's left arm hanging useless in a sling, Laurence found Vikkars to be a pleasant change of pace from all the other gladiators he'd sparred with in Marshank. The ferret proved himself to be a capable fighter with plenty of fighting experience, furthering cementing the idea to Laurence that he made the right choice at the feast.

By midday, the pair were finished sparring and took to one of the many wooden tables overlooking the training grounds. Neither of them said a word for a long while, only gazing at the now-empty field before them.

"I've heard rumors that you know all the prisoners in the Crucible. Tell me about Aveline and Armand."

"Ah, our doubles opponents... The idea of slaying indentured servants must repulse you. Perhaps you'd rest easier knowing that Armand forces himself onto every female prisoner at least once, and that Aveline routinely steals the rations given to newer Crucible slaves."

Laurence looked about the snow field, silently wondering if the ferret was only telling him what he wanted to hear. Before he could respond, his eyes were caught on a warrior's banner facing from the barracks entrance.

Vikkars continued to make noise, but Laurence was inattentive to the world around him. The color -celtic blue- was the same as the dress owned by the barmaid. _Wander._ The maid who worked at the Arbington Inn. _Where was she? What she was she doing right now?_

These days, the mercenary was trying his best not to think about her after the last encounter in the Curatorial Hall. _Was she into me?_ He was still a long way from home, and the last thing he needed to do was to settle down.

Further cementing his theory, the banner had an otter stamped upon it with a sword raised in the air. The longer he stared at the artwork, the more he could not help but think it was a sign from the Fates above. They were giving him a sign to go and meet with Wander one last time. _Yes, that was it. Nothing else made any sense at all._

Standing to his footpaws, he thought about where the ottermaid would be residing. Did she actually live at the Arbington? If not, then where? Even if she wasn't currently at the inn, somebeast there would surely know.

Somebeast behind him called his name, but Laurence paid no heed. He made his way to the grand entrance hall, hoping that perhaps he would find an off-duty bluejacket there willing to help him.

The place was just as big and grandiose as he remembered it. Decorative banners of the hottest new gladiators hung from the walls. Countless bluejackets were posted along the perimeters. Scouting around he could see Higgs the shrew standing guard with a longspear near the barracks door.

"Higgs! Higgs, remember me? I'm the mercenary who became a gladiator!" said Laurence, excited to see the shrew again. "You recruited me from the streets!"

"I'm not stupid, I remember who you are. You're still getting into fights outside of the arena, are you?"

 _What is he talking about?_ It took the otter a moment to recall that his face was still bruised from his night in the Drag. "Er... trying my best not to. I need your help getting permission to visit Marshank Village. I have business to attend to there."

"There's no need for permission. Volunteers can come and go from the Crucible as they please. Just remember to use the towline leading from the Crucible to the village! The last thing we need is to lose yet another gladiator to this damnable weather."

The otter was silently fuming while he flashed a smile and voiced his goodbyes. He trailed out the massive front door, his pace slowed on recalling the humiliating night he tried to "escape" from the ancient fortress.

Leading from the broken fortress to the tiny settlement before it was a thick cord. He hooked a paw around it and trudged forward. A sound of disgust rose from within him at the wet, freezing towline.

Sending a glance ahead, the Marshank Settlement looked emptier than the last time he passed through. Not as many inhabitants openly roamed the roads or stepped out of their houses. Winter's bite was the culprit, figured Laurence, now that the continent was in the midst of the season.

"I still can't believe it. Can you believe that, Sondern? That whole time I could have left through the front gates. I feel like such an idiot now," he remarked to the icicle sword strapped to his back.

Once he was safely within the settlement, he was able to see more clearly. Even here, he found it a bit hard to move around, as the snow had not been shoveled for a couple days and it reached up to the otter's waist.

The Arbington was now within sight. The tops of the chimneys, at least. And this time, Laurence vowed not to cross through any alleyways. Only public streets and roads. Certainly the general sentiment to somebeast encroaching on their culture and lifestyles would not be warmly received.

Fortunately for the mercenary there were no creatures of any sort outside to accost him this time. He stepped inside the inn and took stock of the interior. A gaggle of patrons were cheering and clinking mugs, really just being general nuisances.

He kept both eyes peeled for Wander as he approached the front counter. A mouse sat behind the desk, a mug in each paw.

"Where can I find the barmaid who was working here about eleven days ago?" The otter yelled over the ruckus. The mouse gave a shrug and gave a point in the direction behind. Without waiting for an invitation, the mercenary walked into the back room.

The room appeared to be a storage of sorts. Crates almost filled up the entire room. To the left were a line of typical cleaning supplies and a small table with half-eaten food. Taking a second look around he was greeted with a peculiar sight; in the far corner of the room, was a young vixen.

She was painstakingly painting a tiny something on the wall with an assortment of hogquill brushes. He tried to angle himself to see the drawing in detail, but he was too far away to see clearly.

Laurence cleared his throat. Her ears flickered for a moment, but she did not turn and face him. Agitated, he tried clearing his throat again. Only after finishing another brace of pinpoint stars and daffodils did she face him.

Underneath the frock coat her dress was in complete tatters. Laurence thought of asking her if she was alright, but her serene expression stayed his concerns. "Do you know where I could find a young barmaid named Wander?"

"Here." The vixen hummed a tune as she considered the otter's features and appearance, all for far longer than Laurence liked. "Wander works here."

"That is- I already know all that. That's not very helpful."

"Then why did you ask?" No malice affected the vixen's voice, she tilted her head in the asking.

"I need to talk with her. About-" Movement in the corner of the room caught Laurence's eyes, where a lethargic bluejacket stifled a yawn before slowly nodding off. He faced her a second time and continued, "-certain private matters. Do you know where she _currently_ is?"

"What kind of private matters?" She turned upon her work once more, and continued speaking as she dipped her brush into a pot of sienna paint. Her wrist flicked quick as she stroked the shape of two otters above the pattern of stars and daffodils, the shaped but undetailed lutrans holding paws. "She's my friend, you know. A good friend. I think? Yes. A good friend."

Laurence could not recall Wander mentioning any vixen associates, good or otherwise. Yet, the otter did not detect any lies in the painter's sing-song tone, as wandering as her 'friend's' namesake.

"Is she your friend? Your lover? Your wife-to-be?"

The question instantly placed the otter in uncomfortable territory. He honestly did not know what their relationship was. "I... we're... just friends too. I guess."

The vixen's ears perked once more, and twitched like a bird's pinions caught on the wind. Her eyes widened, her tail twitched, and she clapped her paws together twice in quick succession before burying the burst of delight with a nod. She nodded again to nobeast but herself as she packed up each of the brushes and paint bottles into a little hip-strapped kit.

"Have you admired her height? Yes, Wander is proud of her height. You should tell her how tall she is." The fox stopped once more, speaking more with the painted otters on the wall than the real one beside her. "Oh! Her plume, her...what's the...per-fah-hume. It smells of lavender and honey and Emery's sink. It makes me sneeze but you will like it. You will."

Again, she nodded thrice in time with the clack of her wooden wrist bangles. Only then did she turn fully towards Laurence, a lick of a smile on her muzzle and a swiveling stretch as she rose from her stool.

"Um, thank you," he responded, shrugging. Laurence didn't know what else to say, and followed up with, "You never told me what your name was."

"You didn't ask, Laurence. Good luck!"

Too fast for a civilian, too accurate for dreamer, the vixen tossed a mug by her side across the room. End over end the vessel spun, until it clocked the dozing bluejacket in the corner upside the head. The sleepy weasel started awake, just in time to catch the fox under his care sweeping out of the room and charge after.

After taking a moment to regain his composure at the unexpected turn of events, Laurence took the moment to satiate his undying curiosity. He approached the artwork on the wall and scrutinized the paintings. Two otters holding hands in the center, encircled by flowers.

Laurence took in a large bulk of air only to release it out with a sigh. Outside the room he could hear the distinct sound of two creatures saying their goodbyes, and he took the opportunity to take a seat in one of the chairs facing the tiny table.

Unbearably slow, the door was came open. Wander's face wore a wry grin on top of her usual whimsical expression. The mercenary noted she was wearing a newer, ornate set of clothes instead of her rugged celtic dress. _So she did follow my advice._

A flower was tucked over her left ear. Laurence began to wonder if she had somehow anticipated his appearance today.

"I knew you would come back." Wander said with a smile.

"Yes. I wanted to see how ye've been faring lately." Laurence stood from his chair and apprehensively approached her. She did not shy away from him as he closed the distance.

"Great, I am doing fine. And well."

He remembered the words of the young vixen from earlier and said, "You're looking... um, extra tall today..."

She beamed at the compliment and placed her right paw against his forearm. "Just before your last fight I went ahead and bet all my money." She paused to meet his eyes. "And then, um, I bought myself this new set of clothes."

He gave a sound of affirmation. "What did you do with the rest of the money?"

"Then the next day, I walked to the bank, there was this fountain- all the water frozen out of it. I don't like getting wet."

Laurence waited a beat to see if she would continue, and when she did not, he verbally prodded. "And then?"

She still did not say anything. He was quickly losing his patience with her. "You said you went to the bank- then what happened?"

"I got the winnings from the fight, and on the way back home I slipped on the bag. The ice, I mean."

"Where do you live, Wander?" Laurence was perplexed by her hesitation. Was she nervous? Or trying to withhold information?

"I live here, in the Arbington."

Laurence asked her to show him where, and she took him to a nearby cramped room. Inside was a cot, and several personal belongings on top a crate. She moved the belongings and opened the crate to reveal her stockpile of coinage within.

"I don't know what to do with all of this. Can you help me?"

The mercenary was also terrible with finances. He wanted to help Wander, but he did not have an answer to her problems. She probably did not remember his first day in the Marshank Settlement.

"Perhaps-" The words hitched in his throat at a sudden recollection. _The hare from the caravan._ Gervaise. He was great with numbers, perhaps he would be willing to help her. For a steep price, more than likely. "-Perhaps I know somebeast who could help."

He began writing down all the information he could on a scrap of paper he found in his jacket pocket. "His name is Gervaise. If the fates are smiling on us you can still find him in the market near the ruined walls bordering the city. Just a moment, I only now remember that it's deathly cold outside. You stay here and I will find somebeast to deliver this."

Wander grabbed his paw before he could move. "I know somebeast. Leave it with me."

"As you say." He handed over the paper scrap and made his way through the doorway before turning back around. "Oh, one last thing..."

Already she was by his side, eyes closed and lips at the ready. "Er... I was going to say, it would probably be for the best if you went ahead and bet all of your money on me for the fight tomorrow."

"Oh, that's- yes, that's right," she said, her face falling.

Face flushed, Laurence left the room without another word. His returning trip back to the ruins of Marshank was in a haze, thinking all about the strange encounter. The one thing that broke the otter out from his intense reverie was a torch on the Crucible parapets towering above him.

His return to reality was spent watching the Crucible gates slowly creak open once more. While trudging inside and wiping all the snow off his avant jacket, Laurence kept an eye out for his friend Higgs, but the shrew was nowhere to be seen.

The mercenary contemplated on heading to the mess hall and picking up something for dinner, but his aching muscles from cold and exertion said otherwise. So he instead headed to the Windy Bastion to recharge and recuperate for the fight tomorrow.

Fortunately for him, all of his roommates were out of the chambers at the moment. Either in the mess hall or practicing for their upcoming tourney matches. The otter found a bottle nearly full of brandy on a tabletop. A couple swigs would make the transition into tomorrow easier. That night, Laurence would not remember any of his dreams.

~.~.~.~

An insistent poke to his side brought him awake.

He groggily threw on his clothes and slung his longsword into the makeshift scabbard and shouldered the strap.

Somebeast tossed a... something... at the otter and he took a bite. _Bread._ He began devouring it with haste.

"-Wanted t' apologize fer yesterday. I just wanted t' let ya know that I was just trying t'-"

Laurence glared through half-lidded eyes at the speaker. _Ansley._ _That's right, I have a fight today._ He followed the grizzled stoat from a good distance as he focused on rotating his joints.

By the time he was fully awake, he found himself wading through a gathering crowd of beasts in front of a Crucible arena entrance. A couple of the visitors spoke in hushed voices as the otter finagled his way after Ansley, now out of sight.

He pushed past a family of chattering hedgehogs and almost ran straight into the dastardly mongoose from the feast. _Heretic,_ seethed the otter. _A pox upon you and your clan._ The two glowered at one another while passing by. The creature directed a gesture with his paws to him; one that Laurence figured to be a sign of incivility in their culture.

Inside the armory room, Laurence encountered his bondsbeast waiting for him.

"And now the riverdog graces us with his presence," said Drugaen Vikkars, picking himself up from against the wall.

"Why the long face, Drugaen?" asked Laurence, grabbing a dagger from the nearest rack and testing the sharpness on a nearby grindstone.

"You left me alone in the courtyard yesterday, without an escort," snarled Vikkars, adjusting his sling. "I could not leave until the guards returned."

 _Yikes. I forgot all about that._ "My mistake. I will not do that again."

"Get focused, y' two." Ansley slinked out of the shadowy corner of the room. "Yore opponents are Armand & Aveline from Mossflower. Their only focus is on keepin' the crowd happy, so they'll only put up as much of a fight as y' do. An' remember, ya don't have to kill 'em, if'n ya don't want t'. Jus' make a thumbs up at th' overseer o' the Crucible arena, an' they'll be spared."

When they were both armed and armored, Vikkars and Laurence stood by the familiar ancient double doors that led to the arena. If the otter strained his ears, he could make out the booming voice of the announcer. Instead he relegated the task to Ansley, who had his ear against the wooden frame.

Laurence glanced at the ferret's sling. Hopefully it would not hold them back. Would it?

"If you need to, I can be the aggressor. You can be support; stay close by my side and go in when there's an opening." The ferret did not respond. He only gave a contemptuous snort, which brought Laurence into silence.

Once their names were called, their trainer stepped back and gave a nod. The doors loudly creaked open and the two paced through the entrance and into the cold outside.

The Crucible arena looked almost exactly like the last time he'd been inside. With a few minor changes this time.

Perched in the lord's chair was Deputy Wimmick, presiding over the affairs. He leaned forward and steepled his claws, analyzing the two gladiators with intensity. Wimmick did not appear to take the mantle of leadership with the same gamey attitude as his predecessors. Also, there was no blizzard this time, that was a positive.

All around them the crowd thundered. Most of it was applause and cheering of his stage name. But Frostfang was certain he could hear a couple visitors booing him. _Word must spread fast around here._

It took a moment for the mercenary to stop looking up and around. He brought his eyes back to level and finally saw his opponents. _Well, that's just unfortunate._

Armand and Aveline were otters like himself, perhaps a bit smaller. They dressed in simple yet modest clothing. Matching green tunics. No weapons that the Frostfang could see. What was their game?

"It hast been awhile since our lasteth perf'rmance, right Aveline?" said Armand with paws on his hips, to uproarious cheering.

Aveline theatrically placed the back of her paw against her forehead. "Aye, br'ther. I wilt admiteth, it endues me most wondrous joy to beest upon the most wondrous stage once more."

Vikkars gave a growl and unsheathed his short sword with his good paw. The Frostfang's gaze was locked on the other two woodlanders.

"Now then, where is mine own blade? One cannot square without." Armand felt his tunic all around for the weapon. He reached into his pocket -the two flinched at this- and started to pull out a rag. Which was knotted to a second rag. And another.

Aveline brought her paws together in a gesture of prayer directed at her brother. "This is not the timeth for games, br'ther. We hast-" She slipped on the overabundance of rags on the snowy ground. The crowd roared with applause.

The mercenary could not help but chuckle at their ridiculous antics. This must have been what Ansley was talking about- the two of them appeared to be far more interested in livening up the crowd than lighting up their opponents. He looked over to his bondsbeast, who was obviously less enthused. The black ferret circled close by, weapon raised.

Aveline tried to stand back up again only to slip on yet another rag. The audience was in stitches.

On the chain-end of the colorful rags was the dagger. Armand made a sound of approval and kissed the blade before raising it into the sky. "Ah, my weapon. How I has't did miss thee!"

Vikkars moved like lightning. In one instant, he was behind his bondsbeast. The next he was piercing Armand through the heart with his shortsword.

The victim made a choking sound, dropping the knife and looking on at his attacker. Armand stepped backward and fell to the ground. Aveline gave a scream and fell to her knees. Everybeast in the audience gasped in unison. The Frostfang looked onward in utter disbelief.

As soon as he got over the initial shock, he turned on his ally in fury. "There was no need for that! Why did you kill him?"

"Did you forget why we are here? Focus, Copeland!" roared Vikkars.

Before he could reply, the mercenary noticed the lack of blood on Vikkars' blade.

Turning back around, the Frostfang watched as the supposedly deceased otter -eyes closed, head lolled to one side, tongue hanging out- was tossing his 'blood' into the air. Crimson rags. The audience flickered back into riotous laughter.

"Alas, po'r me. Wherefore wilt the valorous kick the bucket young? if 't be true only there wast more I couldst hast accomplish'd first." Armand's tunic was open, revealing chainmail underneath.

The comedienne was by her brother's side, gripping his right paw. "Don't worry, brother. I shall see to it that your body..." she began rifling through Armand's jacket before finding a compass and pocketing it, "...is buried right alongside mother's."

Once again the Frostfang could not contain himself. He started chortling at the ridiculous irreverence of the fellow otters. With tears in his eyes, the mercenary looked up in time to see Aveline let fly a dagger toward him. It connected with his abdomen, and he fell backward into the snow drift behind.

Aveline slowly approached the Frostfang. He tentatively gripped the weapon in his abdomen and gave a quick pull. The female otter kicked away Sondern and tittered when the victim's attempt to hit her with the bloodied dagger was a miss.

The Frostfang got to his footpaws and held up his paws. Aveline was twirling another dagger in her claws, leering at the weaponless warrior.

Behind them, Vikkars chanted a battle cry, bringing his blade down on Armand, who blocked it with a pair of sais. The ferret took another swing and again the opponent blocked it in time. Vikkars took the opportunity to kick Armand in the knee, forcing the otter to fall to his knees.

Taking his chance, Vikkars lodged his blade into the neck of Armand. Blood spouted the ground. The otter tilted from side-to-side with both his paws on the impaled sword, before collapsing in a heap.

Aveline gave a spinning kick and knocked the crippled ferret to the ground. Frostfang groaned in pain as he closed the distance. He was way too far and in too fragile of a condition to be any help to his partner. He could only watch in horror at the unfolding events.

She threw herself on top of the ferret, pinning his right arm with her left. Vikkars' left arm was completely useless; the bandaged paw was hanging loosely in the sling.

"Ah, hahaha, what a turneth of events. Shock aft'r shock. I'll did bet thee nev'r did see this coming!" A dagger materialized in her right paw, and she raised it over him triumphantly. "Anoth'r most wondrous p'rf'rmance... end scene!"

Before she could bury the dagger, Vikkars' left paw leapt from its sling. He buried a tiny kitchen knife into the cheek of Aveline. Everybeast gasped in utter shock.

Aveline shrieked and leapt away, dancing a frenetic dance of agony. She grasped her cheek and tried her best to stem the flow of blood, all the while sobbing in anguish.

While Aveline did all of this, Vikkars slowly rose to his footpaws and watched patiently.

The moment she fell to the snowy floor, the prisoner was upon her. Vikkars grasped his left paw around the knife.

With her last chance, she started to beg. "N-no... no..."

The ferret viciously yanked the blade out and began to stab her in the chest. Over. And over. And over. And over again. Only when she was done screaming did he stop. The audience gave a disparate reaction to the gruesome killing.

Blanketed in blood, chest heaving, Drugaen Vikkars rose up. He dropped the knife and turned to his bondsbeast. The otter felt his blood run cold. For the first time since Laurence had met him, the ferret was smiling. And he was smiling from ear to ear.


	18. Turn My Head Until My Darkness Goes

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Turn My Head Until My Darkness Goes**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

Tope shifted his grip on the rake, his right paw aching but not bleeding this time. He dragged the tines through the fresh layer of snow that covered the sandy floor of the arena, pulling pieces of ice and frozen blood and other refuse toward the sides.

Somewhere in the slave quarters a squirrel was washing tableware in the warmth of the scullery instead of laboring outside, but Tope did not regret switching jobs. No one wanted to work outside, and the stoat's kindness would surely earn him a measure of favor in Fate's eye.

The snowfall dampened the sounds of the arena, and even the huffing and grunting of the slaves didn't travel far. Tope was thankful for the quiet, for the chance to think. The sight of August filled his head, and all morning he checked around corners and inside open doorways to try and catch a glimpse of the hedgehog, but the healer was nowhere to be seen.

He regularly reminded himself that he could not simply go up to the guard and drive a knife into his gut, but would have to be patient a little while longer. He needed Fate's approval, just as with the others. The upcoming tournament could easily force Tope into making decisions that he'd rather not make, so the sooner he tipped the scales the better.

After an hour of work and most of the arena floor was cleared of debris, a vole wearing the blue and green uniform of a messenger ran up to Tope. Only slightly out of breath, the lad stated, "Administrator Hale demands your presence. Follow me."

Tope returned the rake to the tool shed and was led through the Crucible. He wondered what the wildcat wanted from him now, so soon after that embarrassment of a feast. Did he want Tope to join him for dinner again or do his laundry or... No. As the vole waited for guards to unlock a door, the stoat remembered the panicked eyes of that bat as he fiddled with Hale's wine before running off amidst the commotion of bellowing slaves and red-faced volunteers. Once Whip and his guards had restored order, Tope had been rushed out along with the others... but what had happened to that cup?

 _Do you know who it was?_ he imagined Hale asking him.

The messenger led him up to a door labeled "Infirmary," and he smelled the combination of herbs and alcohol coming from the other side. After the young vole scampered away, he reluctantly entered the room. Most of the beds were made up with fresh linens and empty, but a half-dozen armed Bluejackets stood around one of the beds and one beckoned Tope over.

The guards parted and allowed him to approach. Hale Seftis lay propped up by several white pillows on a clean white bed, a porcelain cup of tea steaming in his right paw. Clearing his throat, he stated, "Thank you for coming."

Tope did not feel the need to respond. He was, however, surprised to hear Hale's labored breathing, his voice weaker than Tope was used to hearing. "What happened?"

The wildcat took a sip of tea and drew in a deep breath. "I was hoping you would tell me."

The bat's eyes looked up at him, pleading and desperate as one wing poured something into Hale's cup. Those same expression was in the arena, begging to survive.

"I'm no doctor," he managed, trying to buy time to think, "so I couldn't say."

Then Tope thought of August, and how if anyone could provide an opportunity to face the murderer, it would be Hale. A favor such as this could go a long way toward earning the cat's trust. _Besides,_ he thought, _that bat made his choice._

Hale's eyes narrowed and the cup in his paws shook lightly. "You didn't see anyone touch my wine last night?" He took a deep breath before adding, "You were sitting right next to me."

The poisoner made his choice and would answer to Fate's judgement, but somehow she decided that Tope would be the one to stand between the bat and potential execution. He wished he had time to think this through.

 _Please!_ the bat had cried during the Culling, _I can't do this on my own!_

Before he could judge the merits of his statement, he found himself replying, "I didn't see nobeast touch yer food. I was busy watchin' the rest o' those bloody mad beasts tearin' at each others' throats, hopin' they weren't headed toward me. Then Whip threw us back in our cells, so I don't rightly know what happened after that."

 _Why did I just lie for you, ye winged menace?_ he wondered, realizing he was now committed to this version of the story.

Hale and some of the guards stared at him, looking for the lie. Several seconds of uncomfortable silence were punctuated by Hale's labored breaths before he spoke, "Very well. I had hoped you would be more perceptive, but I suppose that was too much to hope for."

Tope's eyes narrowed at the jab, but he did not respond, not knowing which words to say next.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room before Hale spoke again. "You might think I don't care about you or the other slaves... but that's not true." He stared Tope in the eyes and continued. "I see a greater future for you than dying in the arena. My brother seeks to make Marshank prosperous, but I have seen beyond small things like profits and prestige. I dream of restoring this land to its former glory... to become a haven for honorable beasts to thrive in strength and safety. Those in collars could help bring justice where there is disorder and chaos."

"You've told me this already."

"But now I'm offering you the opportunity to bring justice back to this place." He took another sip of tea. "Find who poisoned me and I will grant your request and ensure you fight the worst beasts in your upcoming matches."

Tope's mouth nearly fell open. Rather than being accused of treachery, he was being offered a favor. _Would he let me fight August?_ he wondered, but kept that thought to himself. Instead, he nodded. "I will find who did this."

Hale seemed placated by Tope's response, but it was still difficult to tell if the wildcat believed him. He doubted that was the case, but somehow Fate had decided to grant him more time. Hale dismissed the slave and Tope was escorted back to the Drag.

Before long, Tope joined the other slaves walking toward the mess hall for dinner. Seeing leathery wings ahead of him, he quickened his pace and ignored the beasts who glared at him for skipping ahead of them. Following behind the bat as they picked up their bowls of potato and onion soup, he was not surprised when the beast turned around and asked, "Do you _have_ to follow so close?"

"You," Tope growled, "Take a seat."

"My name is Bechtel," he replied, "and why?"

"We need to talk."

Grumbling, the bat found an empty corner of the room and sat down. "What do you want?"

Glaring at anyone who thought they would join him, he replied, "I had a chat with Administrator Hale in the infirmary."

Bechtel's bowl paused at his lips and his eyes went wide. "How is he?"

"Not dead." Tope looked down at the soup, but his anger overrode his hunger. "I lied for you, you flying rat!"

Looking over, he saw the beast hang his head in disappointment. He looked at the ground as he said, "Thank you for-"

"You've been nothin' but trouble fer me!" He kept his voice low as he growled out the words and tried to appear calm. "I don't know why I didn't turn you in, but if you try somethin' stupid like that again, don't get me involved."

The bat sat there, stunned for a moment as Tope's words sank it. Before long, his wide eyes narrowed and he moved closer to look the stoat in the face. "You think I'm stupid for standing up to the vermin who put these collars around our necks? You think I'm stupid for taking steps to save all of us?"

"If you think killing Hale will suddenly free us, then yes! You don't even know anything about him."

"What?!" Bechtel poked a claw at Tope's chest and the stoat had to keep from breaking the bat's wing. "You're suddenly friends with these monsters? You suddenly don't care that we're still in chains, that we will still be thrown to our deaths?"

"You'd rather have someone like Whip take over the Crucible? Or the next bluejacket in line? There's ten more beasts waitin' t' take Hale's place should the cat die. At least Hale is able to offer more 'n an order and ten lashes if he don't like what 'e sees!"

"Oh, really? And what, pray tell, did he offer you?"

"If Fate wills, the chance to face one of the beasts that killed my parents."

Bechtel spit on the ground. "You're a slave of this hell-hole, destined to die, and you're pursuing revenge? You would rather stay and murder someone than escape and live a free and honorable life?" He turned and picked up his soup bowl once again. "You're no better than Hale or Whip or any of them. You disgust me!"

Tope paused briefly. Bechtel wanted out; the stoat had yearned for the same thing not twenty-four hours earlier, but everything was different. He was so close to reaching August! "Don't make me regret sparin' your life, you winged rat! You get in my way again, and I'll let justice take its course."

Leaving his dinner behind, he walked over to the guard at the entrance and requested permission to go to the training yard. He needed to hit something.


	19. The Weight

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Weight**

 _By: Sorel Rendai (Guest Starring)_

* * *

Sorel Rendai had no means of describing what it was, to see Cuprica - Skyskimmer - again. An absence of sound followed her taut form as she struggled, weak now and in fits and starts, against the guards who held her.

A hundred-yard naval rope, tangled beyond all hope of recovery, sat in the Cutter Docking Point's second storage room. In a large wicker basket in the corner, beneath the beginnings of a pair of foxes tussling in a field of lavender and buttercups. In those restless times when he could not gain stillness away from thoughts of her, he would come to work early or stay late, and sit in that storage room with lanterns aglow, and pick at the knot. Some days he might make a little progress, some days he might discover some fresh tangle made from the stretches he'd previously loosened.

Today was a fresh tangle.

She landed a heavy stamp on one guard's footpaw and he nearly released her paw in his pain. Cain let out a growl of displeasure. "Try harder, Rendai."

Ah. He referred to Sorel's earlier statement, his "I can only try."

What would resolve her?

Her face, once calm fur, half-lids and lips turned forever upward, now a mess of taut tendon and massing muscle. Knotted brow for confusion. Narrowed eyes, clenched jaw, curled lip for rage.

Why?

Sorel Rendai was not good at this. Beasts were not like rope or wood or shipwork.

But she had looked like this before. As he had told her that he did not like the Kereval Twins for whom she painted sometimes. As she had shuddered and yowled and torn at whatever was in front of her. As she had chosen Cain's contract over his company.

He surged forward, knowing what to do and what to say. He grasped her wrists and shoved the guard back from her, and leaned into her ear and spoke.

"Cain's contract has you restricted to the Crucible compound for this year. When it is done you will be mine again." She thrashed, but he kept firm hold of her wrists. "Only when you are mine again will we have the chance to break our marriage - and then, you will be free. Do you understand?"

She stilled.

"One year, and then you will be free of all of this. And of me."

One of his younger teamsters had described it as painful, talk of annulment. She had said that it hurt like a black eye, or an old burn.

Sorel did not understand such words. Cuprica's lip had lost its curl, and her clenched jaw was softening even now. It was clear to him that talk of annulment suited her, and that was what mattered.

Her wrists lost their tension, and Sorel released them. She did not meet his eyes, but she did not run.

The group moved on. Between Cain and his guards, the two foxes walked side by side.

"Is your team ready to move in, Mr. Rendai?"

Sorel had long since realised that all beasts who spoke to him direct only did so on Manager Riger's suggestion, but he replied to Cain's imperative tone. "Two of my joiners and finishers are assisting another dock on catching up to their launch schedule. The other four should already be present."

"I did not sign for a partial workforce."

The agreement wavered in Sorel's memory, and could not be stabilised despite his best effort. Cuprica walked beside him, still silent, and he could not remove her from his thoughts. Dwelling was unfamiliar to Sorel Rendai and yet his wife induced it in him, as wind induced rustling in leaves.

"I cannot remember the minutiae of the contract off-paw. I keep track of my team and the days they work. Anything you are owed will be rendered to you."

"I am glad to hear it."

The Crucible, old Fort Marshank itself, stood proud at the end of the Justice Road. Sorel had heard stories about the length and ferocity of the city governors' arguments about the name of the road, but as with all other things the name was what happened over time as the citizens decided what to call it, the governors amounting to nothing.

Cain Seftis had been one of the beasts arguing against the name, by Sorel's memory. He had preferred something grander, something less true.

But the road's name, in Cain's mind or anybeast else's, meant nothing against the traversal of the cobbles underfoot. Fresh laid within the last five seasons, Justice Road was the smoothest road in Marshank and Sorel found himself appreciating it even as he did not much appreciate the nature of his upcoming work, or having to meter the uncertainty that was his wife for the duration of their stay.

A duel broke out as they walked the Road - two weasels fighting for the affection of a jill, from the few words he overhead before beasts closed in and betting slips started to change paws. They were five paces beyond the ruck when a roar of triumph broke out - Sorel cast his eye back to see the stouter weasel nursing a fresh wound to his upper arm, nodding to the leaner, who had his rapier-paw aloft with a mighty grin.

Cain tutted. "Blasted locals will fight anywhere. Dirty up the streets. When the renovations are done and the reputation is cemented, they'll come asking for a space in the Crucible to see their disputes reckoned."

A vague murmur of assent from one of his guards, and nothing more.

The Fort loomed ever closer, and Sorel found himself charting points of evidence even on the outside of the building that pointed to serious future works. The combined sagging of three sections of wall, all within a little way of each other - some part of the foundation was sinking slow. Perhaps the swamp's underground water systems had bled out into the cliff-rock.

He would have to chart the cliffside on a dry day after rain. Patterns of residual moisture would tell him where the underground brooks lay and what damage they might do to the Crucible over time.

And then they stood at the Crucible's gate.

A momentary harrying by entrance guards had Sorel snarling before he realised what was going on, but was cut short by Cain's bellow. Sorel barely noticed the wildcat's flurry of glances as the snarl and growl ebbed away from his muzzle.

They stood now in the fort's main entryway, a great portcullis blocking further ingress to the courtyard proper, stood proud and wrought from grey stone. Of the four guards, back in position now, two opened what would have been the old gatehouse entrance and gestured the party inside.

Cain's guards peeled away, and were replaced by a solitary fitch in dark red jerkin and trews.

"Ah, Solomon. Would you please give the Rendai couple the tour, then report to me at Cain's bedside. Mess hall, amenities, supply areas for the lady and woodshop for the gentlebeast. Round off with their quarters. And both of you, report to my office tomorrow for your assignments."

He waited for their signs of acknowledgement, then bustled away.

Sorel caught the twitch of Cuprica's ears from the corner of his eye as Solomon addressed them. He understood why. The fitch's voice was as deep as his own, with an odd lilt he'd heard once or twice about the docklands.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rendai, if you would follow me. Are either of you hungry?"

Sorel was reminded of his inability to eat at Cain's luncheon table in the Arbington, and nodded. Cuprica did not respond, but he knew that she had not eaten either.

"Very well. In which case our first stop will be the mess hall."

Solomon did not speak much. He carried a brass-handled cane, with which he sometimes matched his left stride and sometimes his right. The fitch scuffed an odd rhythm with boots and cane-tip on the flagstones as he walked, bringing to mind the ringing of the chains at high tide at the mooring points.

"We eat hearty here. Career combatants must eat well, as must manual labourers and courtesans and staff." He pushed open a single door, and the waft of meat, broiled vegetables, fruits and nuts had Sorel's tail swishing - and bumping against Cuprica's, which was doing much the same. As the sound of cooking and chatter washed over them, he found himself surprised at how much easier it was for them to stand next to each other now that he had made his promise.

A few of the beasts at table wore collars, but most did not. A few wore the delicate silks of the courtesan, but most did not. A few were of woodlander species, but most were not.

"I'll be back to collect you in a little while. I'll give you time to eat and perhaps to get acquainted with some of the other workers." Solomon left them in the queue for dinner.

Sorel gladly took a decent amount of woodpigeon, two ladles of stewed root vegetables, and a pawful of gooseberries. Cuprica beside him took far too much smoked fish and just one ladle of vegetables, and then she hesitated at the fruit. He watched her as her paw darted from one to the other, visibly deciding against each one in turn, and he untied a pouch from his belt and held it out to her. A pouchful of figs, that he always kept about him in case of tiredness - something that the buffet here lacked, something that Cuprica had never been shy to ask him for in the past.

She looked at him, and the corners of her lips twitched up as she took the pouch, poured half of the figs onto her plate, then gave it back.

They found a place - two places, one opposite the other - along one of the several long dining tables. Beasts sat and chattered around them, but the two foxes were silent. Sorel spent a moment piercing the gooseberries and squeezing them out over the woodpigeon meat until she spoke.

"What will you be doing here?"

A straight question. Sorel finished his mouthful.

"Structural and decorative work. We will be assaying the building, replacing anything that is damaged or structurally unsound, or anything that will need work within twenty seasons. I believe there are multiple mechanisms to be installed, largely taking their inspiration from naval machinery."

"What sort of machines?" She tore the next piece of fish in half, placed it on her tongue and closed her mouth.

"All windlasses and rope. Moving gantries, such as the ones you used to paint the higher walls of that first storage house. Elevation machines, to lift beasts from the cellarworks into the courtyard proper. Machines to divert the flow of water, and to raise canopies against the weather."

He ate the last of his woodpigeon and a piece of stewed parsnip and then she spoke again.

"Tell me about the canopies."

A conversation last had perhaps a year and a month ago, when she had asked him to tell her the differences between all a ship's sails.

He began to speak of the struts that would be built in from the rooftop of the fortress body toward the centre of the courtyard. Of the chains that would be riveted to the edges of great squares of tarpaulin, of the strut-mounted guides that would hold the chains and allow the tarpaulins to be extended out from the rooftop until they touched each other in the centre of the courtyard.

He was interrupted partway through, by the fitch Solomon.

"Are you finished?" He asked, nodding to their plates.

Sorel stabbed the last few chunks of vegetable and threw them into his mouth, nodding and standing as he chewed. Cuprica's plate was empty save for two figs, one of which went in her mouth while the other stayed in her paw.

They followed Solomon out of the mess hall, and listened as he gestured. "Through there, our deliveries yard. Any wood will arrive there, Mr. Rendai, the night after you request it from the quartermaster. Mrs. Rendai, as your shipments will be paw-manageable, you will collect anything you order direct from the quartermaster himself, who we will meet later. Understood?"

Sorel nodded. Cuprica did not.

"Very well," Solomon said. "The amenities, the quartermaster, and then your quarters. Please follow me."

The fitch led the way, stopping at various labelled doors and describing their function. A laundry room. A seamster's. A scullery. In the opposite wing, a single, much larger room where three or four should have been, filled with clean beds and medics and several wounded beasts.

"Until it heals completely, I said. And then you come in here, scab all twisted up and bleeding at me and you say you didn't try t'fly! Tosh."

A somewhat-aged hare was cleaning the leathery wing of a beast that Sorel had not seen before. He took in the details: wings without feathers, a great deal of fur about the neck, wedge ears, eyes narrowed in his general direction. A clicking noise escaped the beast, and its eyes locked in on him.

"Excuse me," it asked. "Can I help you?"

Was there meant to be another meaning in its voice? Sorel felt his hackles rise in frustration but before anything else could be said, Cuprica stepped forward. "The collar. Why?"

The beast whirled a little sideways to look at her, clicked a few times, tipping its head from side to side. "You don't know? We're slaves here. These collars tell the guards who to kill if somebeast tries to escape!"

A cold wash ran through Sorel at the thought of this beast - any beast - forced against their will to fight. It ran in line with all the beasts he'd ever met and fought who used threats and violence and money to bend others to their will.

One year, he reminded himself this time. One year and then freedom.

"You are not a slave," Solomon stepped close to Cuprica, who had bottlebrushed through her coils of tail rope, but stopped short at the beginnings of a snarl on her muzzle. "We will put no collar on you. You are employed to work here, but you will never be given to the fight. A slave may never leave the Crucible, but you are permitted to do so during the day… under guard, that is, or in your husband's care." He looked Sorel up and down, a tug to his lip. "Come now. I'll show you to your quarters."

One more stairwell, and they were in a single corridor that by Sorel's estimation stretched the full length of the Fort's cliffward side. Lanterns hung unlit on hooks along both walls. Brass numbers adorned each door. The floor was carpeted with hessian.

"You are in room twenty-three," Solomon said, and walked with them to the door. He took a large iron key from his breast pocket and unlocked the room, gesturing them inside as the door opened with his push.

Sorel saw Cuprica's tension from the corner of his eye before he registered the problem. One room. One bed. Sized for a couple, true, but with his talk of annulment it was certainly not suited for the two of them.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Solomon said as he tossed the key onto the bed. "I'll see you both tomorrow."

The fitch left, and the door closed behind him, and Cuprica was a tangle of tautened muscle again - all the signs of rage and fear and confusion back on her face.

"Stop," Sorel said, but she did not stop. Her paws were shaking now and her lips were drawn back and her eyes were wide.

Sorel opened the door again, and stood on the threshold looking back at her.

He waited until her shoulders loosened to speak.

"When there has been an accident and we are behind on construction," he said, "We take hammocks into the frame of the ship and we sleep there between work shifts. I will find a place within the machinery and do the same. I will see you at breakfast."

Her shoulders slumped, and she did not look back.

The door closed with a softened thump, and Sorel Rendai went to find a place sturdy enough to hang a hammock for a fox.

Time, as he hunted for a particular kind of an archway. One with two load-bearing pillars that did not stand astride a bottleneck or a route of high pawfall.

And then a ferret noticed him. A ferret of broad shoulder and curled lip, wandering tunnels where he should not be.

The interruption hung heavy over them - a censer that had burned too long, perhaps, turning the air dry and rank with old burnt perfume.

"Ah." A heavy voice of command and fury, coiled tight. "The failed husband."

All nuance was lost in the thunder of Sorel's heartbeat. Imbalance plucked at his breast, butting against the fury boiling over in his belly. The two served to counter each other for a precious moment, long enough to remember what was so strange about this beast's presence.

"Ah," the twist of mockery crept out along Sorel's tongue. "The wandering slave."

But the ferret's countenance swung toward amusement rather than worry.

"And I suppose you think you can order me back to slave quarters. You, the teamster tod who lives up to neither of those words." And the curl came back to his lip, and deepened like a fish hook sinking into flesh. "A teamster with absentee workers. A tod who arrives with a wife but doesn't even sleep in the same chamber. Cuckolded by a painter's brush, for Vulpuz' sake. I should be the one ordering you away."

Imbalance and fury, as strong as he had ever felt them. Still that graspable moment of balance between them, that graspable moment that smelled for all the world of Cuprica.

"Last chance." Imbalance took his windpipe, set his voice trembling - and then Fury took his chest and brought his words to a bellow. "To your bed!"

All amusement fell away and only the hook remained.

A pure snarl now.

"Patheti-"

Rage won out, and Sorel cut a path forward. A moment of confusion on the ferret's face before the tod's fist impacted his sternum and drove forwards. A single loud crack, a quiet huff as the air left the ferret's chest. A moment of nothing as the ferret, spittle bursting from his lips, left the ground. A dull thump as he found new ground in the tunnel wall.

Sorel stood and did nothing. He could not trust himself to act further. Memories of childhood washed over him as the ferret gasped for air, struggled to his feet, staggered away.

Only when the sound of pawfall had faded did Sorel move. His other fist slammed into the wall with every ounce of his remaining fury and somehow - somehow - nothing broke.

And with Fury expended, Imbalance reigned. He stood straight, breath coming in hitches, heartbeat thundering loud and fast in his ears. He took one fist in the other paw, pressed gently down. His claws would hurt for a few days but nothing more.

But the last time he had driven his full fury into a wall, he had broken two claws.

And so, there must be something wrong with the wall...

 **[End of Round Three]**


	20. I See the Line

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **I See the Line**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

A collarless squirrel pulled down a blue flag with an embroidered otter from the wall of the training grounds. If Tope remembered correctly, it belonged to the young volunteer that had chosen a slave for his partner at the feast a couple of nights ago, who had sneaked into the slave's sleeping quarters and caused a ruckus there, too. Tope was surprised to find himself wondering how the fight went.

 _This place is addlin' my thinkin'._

Against his instinct to not get involved, he told his sparring partner to wait for him and approached the squirrel, careful not to get too close and attract unwanted attention from the nearby Bluejackets. "Oy! Mind answerin' a question?"

The squirrel on the ladder turned his head, startled to be addressed by a slave. "Oh, um, what'cha wanna know?"

"How'd that fight go between the... um..." He struggled to remember what any of their names were and pointed at the blue fabric in the squirrel's claws.

He looked at the flag. "Oh, not that great, 'cept for the Prisoner King. Those Mossflower otters were in rare form and managed to get a knife in the Frostfang, but then that crazy ferret sliced the one guy's throat before tearing out the lady's heart. Real bloody like!"

Tope would have to find out who that Prisoner King was, but for the time being he asked, "Did the... Frostfang survive?"

"Yah, his wound weren't too bad, but it was pretty embarrassing after his last fight."

He couldn't help but wonder what that last fight had looked like. Maybe the Frostfang had been distracted or... Tope shook his head to clear the though. He thanked the squirrel and went back to the yellow-coated stoat who waited impatiently for him.

Tope let his mind wander as he sparred. Why did he care about the riverdog? He wasn't a slave; there was no collar around his neck. Frostfang looked older than Tope, but had a youthful air of pride and naivety that the stoat had long since grown out of. And yet, the otter seemed like one of the few beasts in the Crucible that did something. The other slaves were content to merely survive, and the volunteers waited for their next chance to spill blood. The otter might be another fame-seeker, but he didn't act like the rest.

His partner smacked him in the head with a wooden short sword, knocking Tope off-balance. Realizing just how much he'd allowed his mind to wander, he put aside thoughts of the volunteer and assured the other stoat that he was both fine and not angered at having been brought back to reality.

 _"It's yer own fault if ye don't keep your head in the fight,"_ Tope heard his father say.

After another twenty minutes with the stoat, he took a break. Standing off to the side, he stretched his arms and legs and back, staying in motion so the cold didn't freeze his muscles. Before long he was approached by another slave who needed to get ready for an upcoming fight. Hearing August on the far side of the grounds, amiably gesticulating toward his fellow Bluejackets, he accepted the weasel's request.

His third fight of the Elder's Pyre would be in three nights, the night before the round was set to end. No one had told him who he would be fighting, and he doubted anyone would until the day it was to take place. He wished it had been Armand and Aveline, the otters who were little less than volunteers themselves. Proud of their kills and the fame it brought their names, they liked to levy their influence against the less capable slaves, intimidating them into giving up possessions and privileges. Now they were dead, and Tope had to wait.

With August's throat practically in his paws, he would do whatever it took to earn Fate's approval, and the sooner the better.

Another half-hour passed, and Tope began to feel his muscles protesting the cold and prolonged use. "Let's call it a night."

A flash of disappointment and desperation crossed the weasel's face. Lowering his paws, he replied, "I guess even you need to take a break."

He clapped his partner on the shoulder. "You're makin' good progress."

"Ha! I'll be lucky ter survive five minutes in the arena, but that be four minutes longer 'n I would've before yer 'elp!" He turned to return his practice spear to the weapons rack and added, "Yer a good beast, Tope."

"I'm no goodbeast," he replied. "Not yet."

He hadn't been present for Ryetail's hanging, but he felt every bit like the hangman. An innocent beast, killed because Tope chose to spare that loud-mouthed fly. Even though he hadn't put the noose around the rat's neck, he knew he was responsible. He could feel Fate's disapproval and had thought all day about how much favor he had lost, but he could still make up for it. He had to.

The guards unlocked the slave pens and Tope made sure he was one of the first through the door to the mess hall. His whiskers twitched as he wrinkled his nose at the lump of gray... something in his bowl, but he said nothing. Ignoring the taste and texture and smell, he choked it down and asked the beasts in the kitchen if they needed an extra pair of paws. After exchanging shrugs, one of the two nearby shrews shoved a pile of dirty bowls in his paws and pointed to the wash basin.

He lost track of time, elbow-deep in a pile of dirty dishes that reappeared as soon as he washed them. The cooks and other kitchen slaves bustled around him, shouting out orders and yelling out excuses and trying to get the slaves through the line as quickly as possible, largely ignoring him until a shrew in a dirty yellow apron tugged at his sleeve.

"Everyone else is leaving," she told him. "I'll finish these up."

Tope nodded, drying his hands on the rag she handed to him. Out in the mess hall, a couple of the guards watched beasts file out. A blue-clad fox called out to him, "Benwrath! Where have you been hiding?"

"I was in-"

"You're on construction duty! Head to the antechamber of eastern Crucible wall and check in with the foreman there."

He nodded once and made for the door.

"Trying to hide in the kitchen. Ain't an ounce of respect in that bonebrain!" the fox scoffed. "Wouldn't know his place if it was branded on his fur."

Tope paused for a second before continuing out the door, not wishing to test Fate's goodwill by teaching them a lesson. _As long as they don't get in my way..._ He entered the cold stone hallway and walked with a dozen other slaves toward the antechamber, rubbing his damp paws together. He thought of August at his mother's bedside, forcing her to drink something that brought her neither life nor relief. He heard the moans from his brother's lips as he slowly wasted away, the memory of those sights and sounds and smells stoking anew his anger and warming his limbs.

By the time he arrived at the work site, he was itching to swing the pick-axe he was handed, to strike and strike until he had torn this whole place down. Feeling the impact of each swing from his paws to his tail, he worked as if he was the only beast tearing down this rotting and worn-down chunk of the eastern wall. If he could do the work of two or three, surely Fate would see his good deed. Surely.

A hedgehog came by with a wheelbarrow and began to fill the cart with the debris that had fallen around Tope. Looking over and seeing the slave bend down laboriously, the stoat set the pick against the wall.

"Allow me." Tope reached down and picked up the heaviest of the stones, depositing them in the wheelbarrow before going back for more. Once the small wooden cart was full, he asked, "Ye need help pushin' that?"

"I have it from here," the hedgehog responded, wiping a paw across his sweaty brow. "Thank you for your help!"

Tope hefted the pickaxe again and looked around to see if anyone else was struggling. When he didn't see anyone needed his assistance, he went back to demolishing the stone wall. He waited, his right paw beginning to sting as he swung the pick over and over. After another stretch of time, the wheelbarrow came back and he picked up the larger stones once more. A mole carrying a bucket of water and a dipper stopped by, but Tope instructed the beast to serve the other slaves first. He could wait.

Several beasts pushed a wagon next to the construction site. Two sea otters and a ferret began the process of pulling a huge wooden beam from the back and setting it carefully against a wall. The foreman, a tall red fox dressed in gray, began conversing with them. Tope set his pick down and approached, careful not to get too close and appear threatening. "Sir?"

"What is it?" the foreman asked, his voice neither angry nor annoyed.

"May I help move those?"

"Why?"

"'Cause I want t' help with the heavy liftin', if you don' mind."

The fox looked at the other beasts, who seemed pleased by Tope's offer. "You may help unload, then it's back to the wall."

Tope nodded and joined the three, who didn't speak to him but were obviously glad to have another set of paws. He remained silent as he went up to the wagon and began to help the ferret drag one of the beans out and set it down next to the other. All together, the four of them hauled fourteen of the thick timbers from the wagon, each one seemingly heavier than the last to the point where Tope's grip threatened to give out with the last few. Once that job was done, the three nodded their thanks and began to push the wagon back to where it had come from.

His fur sweaty and his muscles feeling a bit worn down, he took a few deep breaths before retrieving his pick and swinging it once more against the crumbling stone wall. He pictured August's face on the stones and felt a second-wind fuel his movements.

A sharp yowl of pain rang through the hall and Tope looked over to see a collared rat clutching his paws to his face, a trickle of blood seeping through is claws. The foreman ran to the beast and pried his paws apart to assess the damage. Pulling off the rag he kept on his broad black belt, he pressed the rag to the rat's eye. "Hold this here." He then barked at one of the guards to come over. "Take this beast to the infirmary." When the guard looked at his comrades for confirmation, the foreman growled, "Why are you still standing there?"

The rat soldier left and the fox went over to the pickaxe that had been left on the ground one tip sporting a small blood stain. "Everyone take a five minute break!"

While the others sat down or began to shuffle toward the mole carrying the water, Tope took note of the section of wall the rat had been working on and walked over. Hoping to make up for the rat's loss of progress, he ignored the foreman's order and began to strike at the stone.

The foreman turned to Tope. "I told you to take a break."

"I don' need one." He tried to imagine August's face on the rocks again, but this time the rocks preferred to stay rocks. He ignored how heavy the pick was beginning to feel.

"Give me the pick," the fox ordered, "and sit down."

Tope could feel the opportunity slipping away, crucial points being lost as he did nothing. "I need t' work, sir."

"You're going to hurt yourself as bad as that rat, and worse, if you keep acting like you can do everyone's job." The foreman took a step closer and looked down into Tope's eyes. "What did you do before you were brought here?"

Tope's mouth opened to speak, but then he wondered how he should answer the question. "I... traveled 'round looking fer specific beasts."

"Traveling didn't make you that strong. What else did you do?"

Realizing he couldn't be worse off telling the truth, he replied, "I avenged the death o' my kin and hope that Fate judges me worthy enough t' finish the job."

The red fox pulled at a whisker as he considered what Tope had just said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"And do you ever think about your future?"

Wondering why the foreman was asking him so many questions, he absentmindedly touched the collar at his neck. "Only one thing I care about, and that's seein' the last of those b... I just want them to meet their fate before I meet mine."

"And if that doesn't work out, what then?"

Tope's jaw snapped shut. He'd never talked with anyone about his plans, and yet here he was, speaking out to a stranger who was questioning his very reason for being there. Why did he need to explain himself? This fox was a free beast, able to come and go, not having to live his life at the whim of someone else's greedy desires. The foreman had the luxury of considering his own future... And yet he had a point. "I... can't think about that."

"Well, you should. If you don't plan for your future, then what's going to keep you alive long enough to see it?"

Tope turned his head as he considered those words. He didn't want to think beyond his revenge. It would be difficult enough to simply maneuver himself into a place where he could strike at August... It would be difficult enough to survive his next fight!

 _Trust me,_ Fate whispered in his ear.

"Don't kill yourself trying to survive." He pointed to where a few other of the slaves were sitting. "Get a drink, sit down, and don't start work until I tell you to."

"Yes, sir," he replied and made his way to the water bucket.

Tope was finally growing accustomed to having beasts near him at all times, but he wished again that he could simply be alone with his thoughts.


	21. Late Lives

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Late Lives**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

The bag obscuring his face was ripped away.

Laurence blinked at the hot, smoking haze before him. He shifted against the hard wooden chair. His paws ached from pressure.

Years of military training slowly took over. _Find out where you are. Check your surroundings._

With each labored breath Laurence was consciously aware of the tightly wound bandages on his abdomen. The ropes around his paws dug deeper into his wrists at the slightest movement. No way to get himself free. Not without help.

Another heartbeat passed. Wincing against the tightness of his bonds, he craned his neck to take in his surroundings. He was surrounded by a circle of torches and candles.

He peered into the poorly lit room to the left. Nothing out of the ordinary. A desk in the far corner, a row of chairs facing it. The edge of a painting peeked out from behind the doorway. Why was he here?

 _Probably because I made the wrong choice._ Laurence recalled spending most of that morning staring out the window and into the breezy outside. Watching the good number of slaves that were busy toiling on the outline of a new structure near the guard barracks. _I made the wrong choice at the feast._

Ever since that doubles deathmatch, Laurence made an effort keeping to himself and avoiding everybeast. Well... really, he was just avoiding one beast in particular. And their name started with a 'V'.

Movement in front caught his eyes. Standing before him in the shadows, was an outline of the biggest rat Laurence had ever seen. The otter gritted his teeth and accidentally knocked his elbows together in a frenzied attempt to grow loose.

"Frostfang Copeland. Thank you for joining me," said Captain Whip, stepping out from the shadows. "I'll bet y' know why you're here."

Laurence narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The mercenary knew of the officer; Whip was the creature responsible for the supervision of prisoner gladiators. Mostly he kept to himself.

Earlier that morning, a courier dressed in the blue-green befitting Marshank messengers had approached the otter with a letter. The contents were simple and scrawled in black ink. A quick glance at the name on the bottom of the page: Captain of the Guard, Head Officer of the Bluejackets. Whip. Requesting an audience. Laurence's blood had begun heating up at that, and he'd tossed it out the window without sparing a thought.

 _Rats. Unsavory, despicable, lowlife creatures._ Laurence had never met a rat he liked. They only cared about themselves. The majority of his foes were rodents in the great war that rent his homeland apart.

The War of Eventide. It might have been eleven seasons ago, but his nightmares kept those memories contemporary.

"Tell me what you and the ferret king talk about during your training sessions."

Not much. The optimal way to handle a sword. Their injuries and how to work around them. What their plan for the doubles deathmatch was. Vikkars was not a beast of idle chatter. By deliberation, Laurence made sure the two had not talked since their departure of the decompression hall.

It was clear to the mercenary that his bondsbeast was searching all of the Crucible for him. Every morning he would observe Vikkars in the gladiatorial mess hall with a pair of bluejackets, surveying the area. How the prisoner was gaining access to visit all of these areas, Laurence did not have the slightest idea.

Whip knocked the shaft of his spear against the stone wall to catch Laurence's attention. "Answer me, Frostfang. How often do you meet with Administrative Director Hale?"

 _Hale Seftis?_ Laurence was baffled by the line of questioning. Only once did he and the Administrative Director cross paths, and it was for his interview. And wasn't the wildcat dying from the poisoning at the feast?

"I have eyes an' ears everywhere. I have somebeast very close to you, watching your every move. So I know when you are lying to me."

Laurence's mind was moving at the speed of light. _Who would be spying on me?_

The officer gave a laugh at Laurence's facial expressions. "Don't know why you're so surprised by that. More'n half of the Crucible is a little birdie for somebeast. Tell me. What do you know?"

The otter did not say a word. He only stared the rat down in uncomfortable silence.

"Alright. I see how this is going to be." Whip shrank away from the illuminated area encircling Laurence. The otter could finally breathe with confidence again. "Listen... sources tell me you been visiting the Marshank Settlement, seeing some young lass. I can pull a few strings, make arrangements. See to it that she moves into your dormitory with y'..."

 _Wander._ She was an amazing look -her rudder was quite sleek yet well-maintained, Laurence often wondered how far she could swim with it- and not to mention Laurence enjoyed all the time they spent together these days, but he did not want to marry a foreigner in a faraway land.

Laurence was the firstborn son and rightful heir of the Copeland Estates. He was tasked with continuing the family lineage someday. Getting hitched with somebeast not from Helmsford would not be the smartest idea- he would be disqualified from his birthright.

"I know you aren't from here. Maybe you miss your ma, your pa... brother or sister, perhaps. If y' keep your eyes peeled and keep me updated on Hale Seftis... I can see to it your contract with the Crucible will end before the year is over."

An appealing offer, and hard for the drifter to refuse. He did not belong here. But if his family knew he ever affiliated with a rat, they would disown him.

But if he did not go home now, when would he go back home? His family surely needed him.

"I can sense that something is off in the Crucible. There's been whispers of something big goin' down soon."

He missed his mother, he missed Shadder, he missed Royen, Kaesha, Grahan, Fendrel, his king. Laurence regretted ever leaving his homeland.

The rat gave one last attempt. He stepped back out of the shadows, paws stretched out wide. "Tell me something. Just give me what you know, an' I can help you, Frostfang. Help me help _you_."

And still Laurence said nothing.

Captain Whip's face contorted into a sneer and he turned his back on the mercenary. "Take 'im back to the Crucible, boys. I'm done with this one."

As Whip began to make his way to the room on the left, two pairs of paws untied the ropes cutting into Laurence's wrists. His eyes were watering from the intense cavalcade of emotions bouncing around in his head.

A single sob escaped through his mouth.

The captain stopped in the doorway at the sound, ears twitching. After another beat the rat crossed through and closed the door behind him.

When Laurence was freed from the chair, two bluejackets escorted him out of the safehouse.

Outside, it was cold and relentless. They were on the outer fringes of Marshank Village- near the outer fallen wall. Another blizzard was racking the small settlement, air so cold the otter could feel his exposed body already beginning to shiver uncontrollably.

With nature's howling winds to mask the noise, Laurence openly wept.

 _Eastborne. The city was becoming muted. Streets were emptying out as the sun reached its peak. A mouse wearing an apron and a homespun tunic was hard at work, hammering out an iron dagger._

 _Every now and again he was furtively glancing down the streets for signs of his work master. At the sight of a young, burly otter, he left his project on the anvil and called over his friend._

" _Hey... Hey! Over here." The mouse waved his friend over with his hammer._

 _The otter's eyes locked on the tool. He approached with caution, "Careful where you point that thing, Fen! Unless you want to hurt yerself again."_

 _Fendrel smiled sheepishly before putting down the hammer and picking up the smooth dagger. "Before long I'll be done with all of our weapons. Two swords, two daggers." He glanced about the empty station, before adding, "Then we'll be sailing the open seas, going Fates-knows-where. How exciting it will be!"_

" _The smith master has no idea you're making these, correct? The war is over now, both sides have signed the treaty- He will be awfully suspicious if he finds out about this."_

" _Aye. He doesn't have the slightest clue. Grahan and Kaesha are still on board, right?" The mouse gave a knowing emphasis to the second name, nudging the otter lightly._

 _Laurence nodded. "Aye. We leave tonight. Leave no trace- the less of a trail we leave behind, the more of a jump we will have. Make sure you are well packed for the trip, who knows how long-"_

No! Not another moment longer! Laurence could not bear to think of what happened. The past was in the past. He was going to live in the present.

In front of him was a rat cloaked in a heavy bluejacket outfit, leading on the towline. Looking behind Laurence could see Higgs bringing up the rear. Every now and again, Higgs would give the mercenary a shove to keep the party moving.

The shrew was stone-faced; he would not respond to any of Laurence's gestures or questions, much less look him in the eye. Slung on his back was the icicle sword, Sondern.

Before long they were upon the old Marshank fortress ruins. The Crucible.

None of them needed to look up and acknowledge the voices overhead. Somebeast on the wall must have caught sight of the blue uniforms. They were whisked inside the opening doorway without any hiccups.

Once inside the fortress walls, the two bluejackets left the otter on his own after handing back his sword. Laurence was too busy contemplating who the spy was to really notice anything. Whip had said it was somebeast close to him. He wasn't very close to that many creatures within Marshank. Perhaps the rat was referring to proximity instead?

Iwan the fox was a likely suspect. He was Laurence's roommate in the Windy Bastion, a volunteer gladiator and frequent participator in the monthly Cullings. He was more than happy to revel in the dark, amoral pursuits of the Crucible.

Perhaps not quite as plausible as the other, but Ansley was another suspect. Sure, the stoat appeared to be friendly, but he came across as... an unsavory sort. After being horribly wrong about the true nature of others several times, Laurence was going to keep his guard up.

What about his bondsbeast, Vikkars? There was no reason to think that he was not a spy for Captain Whip. It made a lot of sense the more Laurence dwelled on it; in recent times the prisoner was gaining access to areas normally off-limits to the enslaved. Close in proximity, not a friend.

Friends. Who were Laurence's friends in Marshank and the Crucible? The thought of friends and what exactly constituted a friend brought the otter back to thoughts and lamentations that had been long forgotten about.

All of the prisoners despised him. He was a volunteer gladiator, clearly he signed up for this. The other volunteers thought he was a self-righteous egomaniac. Laurence was finding himself on the fringe.

Laurence was about to head out for the Windy Bastion and recompose himself, when a familiar beast ahead of him caught his eye. Sleek form, golden fur. _Kamba the heathen._

They were going to pass right by each other.

As they grew closer, the otter considered mocking the foreigner's stupid, screwy facial expressions before he thought better of it.

"Ees funny otter from the Feast," said Kamba when he walked past him.

Laurence whirled around. "...What did you just say?"

Their eyes met. The crimson eyes of Kamba lit up while he answered, "I said that you entertain me, unbeliever. Ayah! Yeer stupid actions at the Feast made me laff."

"The things that happen here in the Crucible are not a laughing matter." The otter's paws tightened into a fist. "Do I look like I'm laughing right now?"

"No. I see face uff dirty foreigner, telling creature like me how to leev. I know how to leev life, Kamba not a stupid. Not like _you_."

The Frostfang narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to wipe that ugly smirk off your face. One way or another. That's a promise."

"Losing in the speaking uff yeer own language. Pathetic. So you resort to violence. Een my homeland, even the lady beasts of my tribe would beat you. And den cook you for entire tribe, ayah!"

Laurence did not respond. The muscles in his arm tightened. The smile on Kamba's face fell. The mongoose's paw hovered over the hatchet in his belt. Both of them stared with intensity.

The tension of the moment was broken by an observing bluejacket sentry nearby. "That's enough, you two. Save your fighting for the crowds."

Given his chance, the mercenary darted away. As he was departing he could barely hear Kamba cursing him under his breath.

~.~.~.~

Much to Laurence's surprise, there was company waiting for him in the Windy Bastion.

Sitting in a chair and leaning against the wooden table facing the entryway was the former barmaid. She was dressed in a regal red dress which fell to her ankles; around her neck several necklaces, her left paw flourished with bright and colorful rings, and atop her head laya circlet of three interlocking roses. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Laurence.

Also awaiting his arrival was Laurence's former employer. He looked to be impatiently inspecting the artworks garnishing the room. The hare was formally dressed in the typical Marshank style of tunic: a covert gray overcoat, and black undershirt with thin cords of fabric reaching down from the shoulders and knotting around the elbow.

After a rough morning, Laurence could feel his spirits lifted at the sight of a friendly face. He acknowledged the both of them with a nod of his head. "Gervaise. Wander."

"Do you have the slightest idea on how long we've been waiting here for you?" grumbled the hare.

"It's good to see you too, Gerry." Laurence took a seat near Wander and watched with satisfaction as the aristocrat fumed at the nickname. "Ever since our last wonderful interaction where you stiffed me a couple coins for an honest laborer's work, I've been waiting with baited breath for our next meeting."

"That's not what happened. I paid you the same wage that I gave to everybeast who worked on that caravan."

Wander placed an arm on Laurence's shoulder. He shrugged it off as she explained, "We decided that we are going to sponsor you!"

Gervaise shot her a look of annoyance before addressing Laurence once more. "Hm. Yes, after some talking with Miss Wander here, I have decided to help her in sponsoring you for your Crucible fights."

"Excellent. And what does that entail, exactly?" said Laurence, leaning back with arms behind his head.

"We'll pay for any of your medical bills, new weapons you might need, and living expenses while employed here at the Crucible. In exchange, there is a uniform you'll be wearing, with the logo of our new business on your jacket. Yesterday, we bought the Arbington."

That got the mercenary's attention. "Bought the Arbington? That's... an interesting turn of events. Just tell me where to sign, and I'll do it."

Gervaise procured the contract from a secret compartment in his coat. Laurence, having learned his lesson from the last time, scoured the document from top-to-bottom for any hidden clauses. Once satisfied with the results, he signed near the bottom and handed it back over.

"I'm your sponsor now. So when I go back to the Arbington, everybeast will know this." said Wander, beaming proudly as she examined the contract.

Laurence decided not to answer. Instead he faced Gervaise once more, "And I'll be gifted with anything I need, correct? Who do I talk with in getting in contact with you two?"

"Your trainer, the shifty-looking stoat. He will reach us for you, should you need anything."

"It's a shame you two didn't start sponsoring me sooner. So far all of my matches have been a breeze, don't get me wrong, but I still could have used the armor." Laurence pointed to his tightly bandaged stomach. "They don't provide you with that, you know."

"Right then. Well, just so you are aware, your next fight is tomorrow night. Prepare well for it. I hear your next opponent is quite formidable."

Laurence picked up a mug laid out for him. "For his sake, I hope so. My last fight in the tournament was a bit too easy, honestly."

"I suggest you go and meet with your personal trainer. I would hate to see you throw away your first sponsored match."

After saying his goodbyes to the both of them, Laurence made his way to the back room of the Windy Bastion, where a giant tapestry of the sixty-four entrant tournament bracket hung across one side of the wall. Every morning the results of yesterday were painted in.

Usually, the mercenary would not bother with checking the brackets to see who his next opponent was. But since he was going out of his way to avoid Vikkars, and by extension Ansley, there was nobeast to tell him his next match.

The otter traced his paw over his bracket run. His first opponent in the tourney, Bragglin the Strangler, was a tough matchup. Not due to skill or prowess, but because the match followed so closely after to his doubles fight against Armand and Aveline. His stomach injury was still quite tender and almost cost him the tournament.

His second matchup was against a slave named Gael, who had managed to cause an upset and defeat the higher seed in his first round. He proved to be of little threat to Laurence.

And for his next opponent... the tracing claw came to a stop, and his breath hitched.

 _Kahmabutcha the Devoted, versus Laurence "Frostfang" Copeland. Eighth Finals. On the eleventh night of the Elder's Pyre._

Things were about to get really interesting in the Crucible. Did Kamba know they would be fighting? Regardless, Laurence figured that he would need to go practice for the fight. The last thing he wanted was to lose to that smug heretic.

Since he was already checking the bracket, the otter went ahead and scanned over the other results. Iwan, Vikkars and the famed Molly Quintock were among the top sixteen. The stoat called Tope and the bat from the Curatorial Hall were also in the eighth finals.

Laurence noted with pity that the bat named Bechtel had to go against the reigning champion, Bear, for his next match. _Well, at least he had a bracket run to be proud of._

Another interesting development was the now-imminent match between Tope Benwrath and Iwan. The two would be playing later today, if the bracket was running on time. Laurence had heard all sorts of reluctant praise for the slave's slow, sedated fighting style. And Iwan was no slouch either. Laurence vividly remembered the fox's performance at the Crucible, and how easily he handled his opponents with deceit and trickery.

Laurence was taking a moment to see who Iwan had fought to make the eighth finals; Once more he found himself at a loss.

 _Iwan "Dragon Face" Iblis, versus Bertram the Mighty. Round Two. On the ninth afternoon of the Elder's Pyre. Iwan slays Bertram; advances in the bracket._

His friend from the caravan. He must have heard about Laurence joining the Crucible and followed suit. _I'm responsible for his death. This is all my fault._

The mercenary reflected on the last time they saw one another, at the old walls surrounding Marshank Village. The two of them were happy to be back in civilization after a harrowing expedition. It was a good memory. But it should have not been their last.

Laurence regretted not telling his friend how much he meant to him. Not getting a chance to spend one last moment with Bertram, telling him everything he needed to hear.

Bertram was gone now, and Laurence never got the chance to say goodbye.

 _Nightfall. All was somber in the once beautiful fields stretching wide before the grand city of white marble. Smoke trailed on the horizon from still smouldering fires, obfuscating the moon and stars above._

 _Four young creatures, not quite yet in their prime, traveling on foot under the cover of darkness._

 _Laurence was taking the lead, while holding his paw was a blindfolded otter close in age. Behind them was a third otter admiring the new sword in his paws, and the mouse Fendrel._

 _As they walked, Laurence was guiding Kaesha around the deluge and filth still leftover from the all-too-recent war. Laurence spoke to her in a comforting tone._

" _Everything's gonna be okay, Kae, we are going to explore the world together. We'll protect you from anything and everything. Think of how much fun we can have on the road!"_

 _The burly otter named Grahan held his new claymore up in the air. "What a beauty this blade is! Fendrel, you did an excellent job. I would look at this all night if I could. Far better than any of those standard-issue weapons used in the war. I'll have to show it to you later tonight, Kaesha."_

" _Nobeast go losin' those weapons. It took me all morning to make 'em!" said Fendrel._

" _What are ye going to name yours, Grahan? Every classic hero has a name fer their sword." Laurence turned and looked back. "So what is your sword called?"_

 _Grahan paused for a moment before answering. "I think I'll name it after th' soldier who saved my life at the Siege of Darkfall. Sondern."_

" _Isn't this great? Four old friends, back together again after surviving the great war! I'm so happy we all made it."_

 _Fendrel gave a quiet chuckle. "But the only ones in any real danger were you and Grahan, of course. You two were on the frontlines."_

 _Laurence was too busy looking behind him to notice where Kaesha was stepping. Her left footpaw came down on the form of a decaying enemy soldier. She gave a quiet gasp and ripped off the blindfold before anybeast could stop her._

 _Her eyes surveyed the landscape before her as she faced her friends. "I can't... I-I can't do this." Tears began welling up in the corner of her eyes. "I'm not brave, or adventurous like the rest of you. I'm sorry."_

 _The other three watched with mixed emotions as she left them to go back home._

Laurence found himself again, this time in a stairwell room.

"Sondern. Who do you think are my true friends?" whispered the otter, making his trip up the same stairwell he used to make his escape attempt. "Who will have my back when the time comes?"

Once at the top of the landing, Laurence noted that the hole in the wall he'd used weeks earlier was finally shored up. Outside on the parapets, the snow was halfway up his shins. The only other creatures out there was a pair of sentries beside a brazier, surveying the landscape below.

Laurence shuddered, and not from the intense cold. "Vikkars? No. That ferret is not my friend. He's a monster. And he's dangerous."

But no matter how hard he tried, the otter could not shake the feeling that perhaps Vikkars truly was his only friend in the Crucible. What a miserable fate to be resigned to.

Laurence missed his old friends from the glory days. They would have been there for him, no matter what. He missed them, flaws and all- Grahan and his unshakable convictions. Kaesha and her endless list of phobias. Fendrel and all those verbal tics.

But they were gone now, and they were not coming back.

Down another flight of stairs, and Laurence found himself in the courtyard. Ahead of him were three creatures: Ansley, leaning against a frozen statue of a long-gone gladiator. He was watching Drugaen Vikkars spar with the infamous Molly Quintock.

Either by chance, or perhaps because he could feel the hot breath behind him, the stoat turned around. "Ah, there y' are, Lore. I've been looking all over for you. Glad t' see you're still in one piece."

The otter turned to face the other way when the stoat grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Listen here... I know you've been trying to avoid the Prisoner King," Ansley gestured behind them to the ferret behind them, "An' I don't blame y'. He's a maniac, through and through. That's what I been trying to tell y', to watch your back around him. But at the end of the day, he is still your bondsbeast. And you two still have doubles matches to win."

 _He's right about that. I cannot avoid Vikkars forever._ Laurence nodded solemnly. He avoided the stoat's eye contact and instead watched Molly storm past the both of them and back inside the Crucible walls. _She looks even more intimidating in the flesh. A good fight she would bring._

"Go an' train with him for your next fight. I know he'll have good advice for fighting." The otter gave a sigh and slowly moved down the wide, stone steps leading into the dirty courtyard. Ansley tugged on his jacket once again before he got too far. "Hey, I ain't done talking. Just make sure that while you're talking to him, y' watch yourself. I've seen him convince somebeast to kill their best friend over a blanket."

 _Well. That's a good thing to know._ The mercenary approached the exhausted Vikkars; as Laurence grew close, he mentally noted the tension in the ferret's claws as they wrapped around the scimitar he was wielding. _How is he sweating? Calling it cold out here would be an understatement._

"Hey, Vikkars." The bondsbeast did not face him. "I, uh. I have a fight tomorrow. Against Kahmabutcha the Devoted. So if you have any advice for me I would greatly appreciate it."

The dark furred ferret turned and looked surprised to see him. "Ah. Laurence Copeland. Just the creature I was wanting to speak with."

Seeing the face of his bondsbeast only reminded Laurence of the bloody massacre in the arena last week. Once more the otter felt impulse rise and impose over judgment. The words tumbled from his mouth, "Why did you kill Armand and Aveline? We could have spared them."

Vikkars stabbed his sword into the ground and began rubbing his paws together. "Do you not recall? They attacked you. If I had not killed them inside the arena, they surely would have killed us in our sleep. I was only protecting you."

Laurence started, "Well, I guess you do have a good point-"

"Now listen to me very carefully, Copeland. I have something important to tell you."

When Laurence did not move, the ferret hooked his claws in the otter's jacket and brought him close for a hug. Confused, Laurence returned the gesture.

"Look up. On the parapet... do you see him?" whispered Vikkars into the ear of his bondsbeast. Laurence's gaze drifted skyward. A bluejacket sentry was observing the two of them. "An informant for Hale Seftis. He cannot hear us, so long as we speak quietly."

"Hale? I thought he was on his deathbed." Laurence pulled away from Vikkars.

The ferret glared at Laurence. While he spoke, he did not break eye contact. "Now take a look in the direction you came from- do it with some subtlety, you dullard! Do you see the scribe, conversing with Ansley? That one works for me. She tells me you paid a visit to Captain Whip this morning."

"Not by choice..." grumbled the mercenary, crossing both arms.

"You and I, we are not from here. We are thralls here in the Crucible, forced to entertain these backward savages. Surely it must damage your pride, knowing that you are nothing more than a puppet to these aristocrats." Vikkars placed a paw on Laurence's shoulder. "I am going to be brutally honest with you. I hate this place. This prison, everything it stands for. I need to get out of here."

"I'm glad we are on the same page-"

"Have I told you why the Seftis brothers chose the name Prisoner King as my Crucible moniker? They use that name to mock me. Here, I am a prisoner-" Vikkars pointed to the wall, "-but outside of these walls, I am the rightful King of Illmarsh. And somewhere out there in the Northlands, my banner beasts are searching for their leader. Suppose I were able to contact them..."

The otter's face turned flushed. Finally, the opportunity presented itself. This was the drastic force Laurence had been waiting for. _Vikkars has an army. He could get them to free all of the slaves! They could stage a takeover and reformat this place from the top-down._ The otter could not resist pumping his fist with excitement. "Name it. Tell me what to do, and I will do it to the very best of my abilities."

"I need you to deliver a message to an attendant in an apothecary shop. It's on the edge of Marshank Village. He will be expecting you tonight. If anybeast asks you why you are heading into town, say you're visiting that courtesan of yours, the one that works at the Arbington."

"And where is the message?" said Laurence, holding out his empty paws.

"The scribe keeping Ansley occupied, she will hand you the letter in the hallway leading from here."

Laurence flashed a smile. "You came to the right creature... I will not fail you."


	22. Blending

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Blending**

 _By: Cuprica Rendai_

* * *

"Four dozen tallow candles, with associated stocks," said Solomon. "Three pairs of work trousers. Six pink ribbons, all different shades and widths. One rock chisel..."

"And the Big Bloom?" said Cuprica.

"...the _Big Bloom_ , right."

Solomon took his time in unpacking Cuprica's 'equipment' requests, setting her ordered candles and ribbon sheathes about Room Twenty-Three. After a few days in residence, the painter vixen turned the walls of her quarters into a menagerie of gladiatorial pups, all toddling along with overlarge weapons and exaggerated features. They sparred upon the clouds over active volcanoes, across fields of stars, and through the vine and twist of enchanted forests. If not for the careful attentions - the blending of color, the flyaway brushstrokes of a confident dreamer - then a casual observer might think the room an overlarge playpen decorated by dibbuns.

Solomon resisted the urge of getting lost in the tapestry. Compulsively, he set about rearranging eating utensils and chamber pots that'd been repurposed as tail picks and flower pots respectively. He did not wish to ask where the paint-splotched vixen actually conducted her business, or why she chose right that instance for trying on the pantaloons.

Instead, he focused on pulling down the mattress she'd somehow flipped vertically, and dodging the avalanche of wooden dolls she'd tucked upon the top.

Behind the mattress stood the full, detailed figure of a fox. Many secondary strokes saw a lot of the work blurred, the creature's face near non-existent.

Tactfully, the fitch made no mention or reaction.

"My apologies," said Solomon. "Our quartermaster could not find a flower fitting your description."

"Did you tell them the hue?" said Cuprica. "They'd know it by hue."

"...I'm afraid the name escaped me."

"Gemsillian. It's a _bright_ gemsillian with marrow spots which help it blend. You can find one in the deep marshes, when the moon is full and there's no more green for winter's bite." For emphasis, Cuprica mimed the shape of the flower and did not continue until Solomon mirrored her movement. "I need it simmered and milked for the finishing the centerpiece."

"Really, Mrs. Rendai, I do not think that color or Bloom exists-"

Cuprica's ears perked at the doubt. Half in her trousers, and with a smock streaming from her neck like a cape, she dashed from the room with the fitch dragged in trail. Most residents in the vixen's hallway knew the tell-tale slam of Twenty-Three's door, and pressed against the wall as Cuprica whipped past with the middle-aged fitch.

They soared through servant hallways brightened by Cuprica's accent and seasonal borders.

They wound down stairwells trellised with tri-color vines of Marshank's official plumage.

And as they reached the vixen's most recent scaffolding assemblage, she vaulted upwards - with surprising agility for a paint-spackled scarecrow in half-adorned clothes - until the lip and undercurve of the Crucible's premium observation deck was in reach.

Violent flames. Against the soft fantasy of Cuprica's quarters, and the tasteful, playful, accents of the serving halls, the arena's flamework stood hungry and inevitable. All the hues of the sun wreathed the hard walls of the Crucible's inner ring, a rolling sea of combustion which licked at the stands above and surrounding, both solemn and true. These waves crashed together beneath the central observation deck,' and formed a geyser which engulfed the jutting bowl of the arena's prized seating to boil the observers alive.

Cuprica pointed at where the flames combined in earnest. While barrels of paint saw the arena's walls burning, the geyser's core carried the mostly unpainted crest of the Seftis' Crucible.

The filled portions shone like liquid garnet drifting through the heavens, but only in licks until the Cuprica's private gemsillian stock ran short.

Cuprica mimicked the shape of the flower, and Solomon bowed his surrender.

"My apologies, Mrs. Rendai. I will inform the scouts immediately." Only then did Solomon realize he'd dropped his cane, and leaned against the scaffolding for purchase. "Perhaps a spot to eat?"

A tilt of the head, a fix of the smock and trousers, as the vixen considered the offer. Solomon visited her quarters most mornings with supplies from the quartermaster - who refused to work with the vixen after securing her hyper-specific order for 30 customized wooden dolls - and a standing offer for shared morning tea. The fitch did not smell like the others to Cuprica, and existed apart from the thrumming musk of arena combatants and the marsh rain reek of fearful slaves. Careful powders and perfumes kept Cain's right-hand beast clean and separate from the daily churn of Crucible victims, a striking oddity Cuprica could not help but admire.

Minutes passed as she considered the offer, and said nothing. Solomon, who knew her custom, bowed away after a quick:

"I'll attend the mess hall at noon should you change your mind."

Without Solomon, not a soul walked the arena or stands save Cuprica. She splayed out across the scaffolding's top rung, and watched the winter clouds above patch and swing. Gaps let the early morning sun bathe the vixen, heat her fur against the high drafts of the structure.

A stretch to let her tail and leg dangle over the platform's edge. A droop of her lids as she considered the unfinished crest, the dozens of hours bent at the arena's walls to turn her mud-red fur into a candle's flicker. Time at the Crucible's halls and walls made the days blur and the nights alone easier. Only the servant areas and the arena proper received her touch, but there was still so much more to finish: the under quarters, the offices, the memorial hall, the entry, the grand walk, the...

...the heat from above came stronger, and made Cuprica yawn.

Humming a few bars of the bat's song brought on the dreams she craved.

 _At once the stone and flames of the arena churned into the ferns and rotted stumps of Marshank's swamplands._

 _Cuprica is younger, a youth in full with fur beaded to her rank's specifications and her hide dyed with mud for the skulk's purpose. From so high in her tree post, the wood rings on her wrists and tail click signals for the other sentries as fortune finders and slavers wove through their marsh._

 _The outsiders did not look up. They never looked up. One last click sent the darts flying. A squirrel reacts poorly to the marsh poisons, inflates at an instant, and falls sideways into an everdeep pool - they will dredge the corpse for trinkets later. She cannot tell if it's her dart or her neighbor's, but by training they shift their aim and pepper a badger until he's awake but immobile._

 _The remaining invaders flee, and a bark sees the ground rangers on their trail. Curprica is the first to climb down from her stand, to the badger's side. She only has moments to pick through his pack before the stronger, larger scouts will come and throw her aside._

 _A whetstone, a hand mirror, a purse full of useless coins-_

 _A feint; the badger rises with a roar. He grabs her by the arm, and flings the willow vixen like a child's toy. The colors of the marsh stream by as she soars through the air, screaming, blending all into a chartreuse of panic and nature._

 _An explosion of crimson dust as her body smashes against a tree trunk-_

"Good morning."

The marshlands of 'home' vanished, and a shadow loomed over Cuprica. The figure did not move, but only stayed a respectful distance on their end of the scaffold. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, climbed upright to shake her half-numb leg awake, and stretched until reality came a little clearer.

Sorel, his paws folded behind his back, his balance perfect though they stood many many yards in the air. At once Cuprica is conscious of the high wind, the shift of the sun above signaling noon, the churn of her ever-empty stomach…

...of Sorel. His face is clear, calm, and knitted with concern. The world about them hazes by her half-lidded eyes, but the smears keep their reach from her husband's features, the licks of gray streaked along his muzzle, the calculation ever at his eye, the ripple of hardened dockland arms against his overalls and shirt: It must be Tuesday, she realizes as she takes in the tan of his shirt. Tan for tuesday.

"My apologies. But this scaffold is coming down. You must nap somewhere else."

"I wasn't napping...the Big Bloom." She rubbed her eyes again and threads snapped into place. "I was trying to remember where it was. I remembered something else instead..."

A sniff of completion. The same sniff Sorel reserved for absolute triumph, or whenever he came home from a particularly long day.

"You once told me the Western Underbog, where salt marshes meet the mountain outlet." Cuprica's ears perked, and she patted her paws together in reflexive celebration. "I will let Solomon know."

A small crowd of haggard beasts circled the structure's base. Some were fully clad and carried serviceable tools. Most stood thinner than Cuprica, and they diverted their gaze when the vixen craned her head and considered the lot. All of them wore the metal collar of forced Crucible service, their paws kicking at the arena's sand as their foreman negotiated.

Cuprica's hackles rose, and Sorel spoke again.

"They are not mine." Her hackles smoothed by some measure, and streak by streak the slashes of paint swirling about the couple condensed to obscure Sorel's face. Only then could she turn and face him. "But Cain lets me employ them."

"Why."

"To complete the renovations." Not a hint of sarcasm from the working beast, but only an answer and a direction. "I offer a fair day's work over forced combat. It is an easy choice for most."

Cuprica shook her head and pointed at where she slept, and then at the hollow of her chest.

"W-why are you here?"

She'd lost track of the days without her den's calendar. Some moments, a full week passed since they dragged her off like an ambushed feral. Other moments, the contract shift seemed only a day in the past. Cuprica couldn't grab the range, but she was absolutely sure she had not seen Sorel since parting at Room Twenty-Three. She smelt his conflict, tasted how he held back from a detailed explanation of what Cain wished changed in the arena's stonework.

"The workers thought it best if I moved you, and not a guard," said Sorel. "That is all."

"Oh."

A long pause as both waited for the words neither would say out loud. Cuprica broke the standoff this time, and slunk backwards over the top top rung's lip. She kept locked on the smear of Sorel's face, searching for the beast beneath, but nothing came before her paws graced the next level down.

Sorel remained on top. Something shook in his voice, a something new she could not decipher.

"Your work is well received. I had more volunteers today so they could work within the flames." A pause which halted Cuprica from climbing down yet another rung. "It is beautiful to behold."

Cuprica tilted her head. This was not the tod she knew, or the natural speech of any beast within the fort city. The smears receded, and she could almost see Sorel through the wash, yet this was not the fox of Arbington's dining room, leaving Room Twenty-Three…

...wrapping her in a carpet and dragging her through Marshank's streets.

"Can we eat tonight?" said Sorel. "Together?"

The remaining scaffold rungs could not come fast enough. Cuprica flew down the structure, and landed cat like upon the sand, the slaves scattering as she bolted from the arena. Her newest trousers tore in the sprint, the customary bandana on her head blew free and let her long ears spoink upright in alert and escape, the clatter of wooden tail rings bouncing across the stone floor. The signal played well, and Crucible workers dove before the eccentric fox bowled them over, surprisingly dense for her size.

Against her knowing, she sprinted past the Drag's entry, past the slave holdings, and into the steam and bustle of the mess hall.

Myriad beasts, both the enslaved and eager, milled about the buffets of Crucible fare. The crowd did not notice Cuprica's panicked entry, or the heave of her panting as she whipped about for signs of Sorel in trail. Confident she'd escaped, Cuprica realized the loudest noise of all came from her own stomach, emptied from a long nap and a frenzied sprint. The smear of conflict, the scent of absolution in her husband, vanished and replaced with the drumbeat of those queuing for lunch.

She slid into the line's halfway point, in front of a massive badger, who only snorted but did not grumble as the others behind him did. The bear of a badger answered every searching question the vixen asked - what is your favorite fruit, have you ever known a mate taller than you, and why he chose a plain brown tunic of all things to wear - and accepted a bowl, plate, and utensils when she passed them back and into his paws. Cuprica did not know what she asked, how he answered, or even that she spoke at all. The frenzy-inducing scent of sauteed vegetables, chattering beasts at the many benches, the muddied blend of dark pelts bent in the eating, the burst of the grapes she plucked from the troughs, the weight of fish and hunked apple piling ever high on her plate…

The ceiling. On reaching the buffet's end she realized the cafeteria was her next painting assignment, since the arena's crest was on hold. To her specifications, on the previous day, the Crucible workbeasts assembled hanging bridges of wooden planks and hempen rope bolted straight into the stone along the walls and ceiling - hanging so those below could eat and move without scaffolding poles in the way.

"Crimson, red, any shade of berry or gem." She tapped the badger gladiator, who'd been following out of some morbid curiosity or spell, on his broad chest with a crust of bread. "Your clothes display the seasons when they should hold the moment. It will serve you well, would be easier to clean. Yes. Red."

She hummed to herself, pleased with the decision as the badger hulk tilted his head, subconsciously pawing at his earthen tunic like a child on the stage. His stripped muzzle parted for a question, but Cuprica wove away through the crowd and to a ladder along the wall. She scooted up with the plate of fish and salad and assorted nuts on her head, expert in balance to the note of some of the feasting beasts.

Once above the rest, once upon her scaffold, the painter studied the beasts through the hanging platform cracks as she ate her fill.

Wander's moonstruck 'friend,' Laurence, who smelt of mountains nowhere near Marshank's shores, a wash of cerulean in the swirl of clay pelts and shorn benches. Cuprica tilted her head and considered the otter maid of Arbington. The memories would not surface, would not break the paint, but still Cuprica tasted the change on her long-time friend, who spoke more of coin and providence than the old ways of long walks and sharing fresh baked bread.

The fitch of powder and power, Solomon, who had his own table in the sea of beasts. All gave Cain's right-paw beast a wide berth, and the chair across from the beast - who ate only a simple, thin soup - remained empty. Cuprica's ears perked at the velvets of his robe, which were not upon his shoulders in the morning, and the infrequent search about the room for a guest who had not arrived. A pang of guilt split through the vixen, but it vanished the moment she felt it, and washed away on considering the soft weave of the middle-aged fitch's dark coat.

And the oddity. Cuprica's last leaf and piece of fish slid down her throat on spotting the bat, Bechtel, arguing with an able-bodied stoat across his table. The rivers on his wings were long gone, and only spots of violet paint bunched along the space where fur met leather. A shout from the stoat, and the bat departed from the table, clutching his plate and the scraps upon it against his chest. Cuprica delighted in watching his large ears swivel for purchase in the loud mess hall, so much like her own too-long ears.

Her plate clean, the vixen shimmied to the centermost platform, dragged her premixed paints along, and stretched out upon her back. The stone ceiling was only an arm's length away, as she specified, and a muzzle cover awaited. She draped the cloth over her face, put a paw on the stone, breathed deep, and searched for what the Crucible's mess hall needed.

The gentle sway of her hanging platform had Cuprica closing her eyes, dipping her flatest, widest brush, and setting to the task.

Rainbow feathers spilling from earthen crucibles. Vessels lined the frame where the wall met the ceiling, tipping aside so feathers of every hue she owned drifted towards the opposite wall. She worked feather by feather, color by color, until half the ceiling filled with prismatic down. Her arms ached, and she'd abandoned her smock long ago to let the drag of gravity spackle her clothes and hide like a kaleidoscope lens.

From below, after she shimmied free and climbed down, none of her work shown clear for the density of the hanging platforms.

Almost no beast remained in the mess hall. Cuprica did not notice the last soul as she scanned the ceiling, spotting a snippet of feathers through the cracks of the boards. She giggled on noticing her spackled paw prints along the ladder wall and floor, a line between them as her tail acted as an oversized brush in itself.

"Did you have fun watching all of us suffer?" The bat remained, and spoke low and careful.

Through the cloy of egg and pigment, striping her reddish muzzle with yellow, she caught the bat's acid and sweat on the air, somewhere between the simmer of lunch fish and the earth of roasted nuts. Fear? Somewhat. Anger? Closer. The vixen squirmed a little closer and stood by the table's end where Bechtel sat, her head tilted, her voice even.

"Was it a bad meal?" No answer, she tried again. "Oh, you and your friend are at odds. I saw."

"He isn't my-!" Bechtel's giant ears flipped about like undergarments whipping on the laundry line, then they stilled. "Nevermind, it's none of your business."

"Then why speak with me at all?"

"Your thrilling company, of course."

The sarcasm drifted over Cuprica's head, and she filled the dead space with picking crusts of dried paint from her clawtips. Bechtel's beady eyes screwed tighter still, backed by a few insistent clicks which rose in frequency. Eventually, the bat's long snout twitched and he huffed away the loss of an unacknowledged strike. The twitch of a snout turned into a snarl. The snarl fueled the bat slamming away from the table and standing tall, barking down at the half-hunched vixen who only fluttered her ears at the tirade's volume.

"Are we just games for you? Seeing how far you can push us while you laugh and hide in your hovels? Look at you! You can't even muster a bloody reaction! Do you care that little, or were you simply born without the capability? You… you just _stand_ there, like a deadbeast on a pike, like a… like a-!" Bechtel sputtered in stasis until the moment Cuprica opened her muzzle to suggest 'like a boat on a still lake.' "Do you even realize what you're doing?"

"I'm listening."

"Here! In the Crucible! For all of us!"

"I'm painting."

A pause, a stillness. Then the bat's muzzle parted and something issued forth. A steady something which sent Cuprica's caked hackles up, though her face remained calm. A wash of sound beyond the ken of her hearing, yet the frustration and rage played clear.

The vixen considered his anger for a moment, placed it in the air above his twitching ears as a smear of red. Dots of black joined the stripe, contorting and muddying until silver flecks and the stretch of a muzzle pressed against the paint. Only then did she see Sorel's ears and eyes poke through, delivering the same scream which shook her bones, loosened her insides. The emotions clicked into place, and at once her own chest swelled in time.

What should she have done then. What should she do now. Running only put her in a cage.

Cuprica put a paw on Bechtel's shoulder and the too-high-to-hear ranting stopped. He immediately pulled away, exposing the violet pawprint left on his poncho.

"Get your paws off of me." Cuprica frowned now that she knew Bechtel's fuel source, felt her tail pull between her legs. "You're the worst of them, you know. You and your rotten husband."

Cuprica's ears perked, the swelling dissipated at the connection.

"You came here by choice," said Bechtel.

"I didn't."

"A lord and lady parading their freedom in front of every slave. A constant reminder of what they'll never have again."

"I'm not…"

"Do you ever stop to think about what we see? No, of course not. You're just happy to paint and flounce around here like some-"

"I-I'm not f-free…"

Bechtel finally stopped as he took in the stuttered confession, as Cuprica started sniffing back snot and tears. She did not weep or convulse or gasp, and she did not understand why she flowed so readily at first. Yet, the first trickles fell before she pulled a paint-stained rag from her trouser pocket, blew her nose, and promptly smeared it with more paint.

"What do you mean," said Bechtel.

"C-conditions, contracts, lies. We're here by force, you and I."

The bat snarled, a claw jabbing out inches from her face. "Save your lies, beldam. You are nothing like me. You don't bleed and suffer on these sands. I see you come and go, just as you please." He took a step closer. "Rotten, foul-throated-"

The bat stopped as his pointed words revealed more beasts nearby: the first a lax weasel bluejacket at the mess hall's entryway, the second the fitch, Solomon, at the guard's side. They stayed at a distance, observing, waiting, watching, whispering directives.

Cuprica filled in the blank right as the weasel and fitch made their decision and marched over.

"Not all slaves wear collars," whispered Cuprica.

"Is everything okay, Mrs. Rendai?" said Solomon.

Neither Bechtel nor Cuprica answered. The vixen blew her nose once more, and in the silence the guard harried Bechtel away and from the mess hall. Thrice he looked over his shoulder in the retreat, his snout twitching in time with his searching ears, stopping in full on the third.

"Pardon my interruption, but we've a rare opportunity." The fitch kept his cadence low, and his muzzle dipped in respect as Cuprica collected herself. "With Master Hale's... _illness_ comes the chance to freshen his office."

"I'm done for today." She could not remember a day when the prospect of painting came as a chore, but so much of the arena's stone weighed heavier now. "My arms are tired."

"Of course, of course. But, please, you should at least take in the space while Hale is absent. It is...unique, and may require more forethought."

"Oh?" Her tail flickered a little in time with her tilting head, the stone's weight forgotten with the challenge. "How do you mean?"

Solomon bowed lower still and gestured towards the hallway, where another waiting guard guiding the pair of them through the Crucible's carved paths. The vixen did not consider the walls for their color or curve, or the wave-like cadence of the fitch's baritone as he explained Hale's general decorative preferences. Instead, Cuprica locked eyes with the cleaning slaves who huddled into alcoves at the sight of a guard, the servants who could only counter with the briefest of smiles, the guards who smirked and took a moment to adjust their trousers with purpose.

In each of them she saw the screams of the bat, the crimson slash of indignation.

"Ladies first," said Solomon.

Cuprica awoke after they climbed to the Crucible's highest rung and furthest reach, where Hale's locked office remained. The guard fumbled through his key ring and unlocked the iron-bound door with a heavy 'clunk,' and held it open for the painter.

The Seftis brothers spared no expense in bringing grandeur and pomp onto each Crucible event. Even the eldest brother's office held furnishings and banners plundered from times long past, preserved and presented as living relics ever at Cain's claws.

Yet Hale claimed the sky.

So high up along the Crucible's rim, so deep into the spiral of the upper tier, the doorway opened into a three-sided room, where the open sky hung in place of a fourth wall. A small ridge of snow lined the room's edge, where no barrier guarded between a clumsy beast and a plunge to the roofs and trees far below. Hale's desk stood no more than a simple, pine piece with a chair, paperweights along its top in the form of hewn stones, and the door's wall held all the scrolls and ledgers of office well away from the encroaching elements.

The elements. Cuprica knew Hale then, knew his strength as she watched the sails of distant ships roll along, the iron of the sky blending into the slate of the ocean at the horizon.

"Ah, so you do understand," said Solomon. "Take a few minutes alone so you may plan, but I'm afraid I must lock the office afterwards."

"So no beast flies away."

"Ah, in a fashion, yes." Solomon raised a paw to pre-empt the guard, who was moments from voicing his concern. "But more to safeguard Master Hale's affairs while he recovers."

"And he is?"

"He will." Cuprica expected an elaboration, as the fitch was wont to do, but he only followed with a short: "Do not take long, Mrs. Rendai. We will be without."

Cuprica remained silent beside the simple desk until the door clicked shut behind her. The water and wind called, and wound into the tear of her trousers to wrap her pelt in a frigid embrace. She hugged back in her fashion with a spin in place, and stepped about the desk, once again in her shoreline den and tasting the salt of freedom.

Freedom.

Even a ruler of the Crucible needed their escape. Cuprica dragged her claws along the two walls leading to the plunge. They were bare save a hanging sword on one and a familial banner upon the other. They would come down, and she'd let the ocean rise to greet the wildcat. Painted spray of whitecaps clawing at the stone, the crests hungry to reclaim Marshank and all who dare camp at its shores.

White paint, and a darker stone for the waves to pop out against. But the furniture…

Cuprica ran her claws over the simple, pine desk and felt for a purpose within. Nothing came. No color, no sound, as though the piece existed to be ignored. The vixen's ears perked at the oddity, for how could a beast who understood the ocean's call, the height and sky, be satisfied with only a single-drawer desk?

She ducked low and searched beneath for any errant design or carving.

Her claw caught upon a latch on the desk's underside.

A hidden drawer pulled away, rattled with the sound of glass on glass, and spread full onto her lap as she wrangled the row free.

Tiny white flowers in a cluster, roots and stems blotched with violet, and leaves like flat daggers to hint and the power within. The Skyskimmer Tribe called this Last Gasp, and offered routed rivals a tea of the plant as an honorable means out. From the tree branches - ever at her post - she watched powerful vulpine swamp kings choke and crumble over time, as though the air itself ate them whole.

Hale's hidden drawer filled with the drying flowers, and vials which smelt of the plant distilled and blended into the finest poison.

Cuprica took a pawful of the vials and stuffed them into her smock, stifling the glass rattle by rolling each in the bristles of unused brushes.

She shouldered through the office door and into the hall after replacing the drawer.

"Ah, just in time," said Solomon. "Have you an idea?"

The vixen's heart raced, but she nodded as casually as the beat allowed. The imploring eye of the guard and fitch bore into her hide, as though they looked for more than the curve of her tail.

"You can begin work tomorrow morning if you wish," said Solomon. "A nice project until our scouts return with your flower, hmm?"

"No."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"I mean yes. Yes. Until then."

The hallway blurred by as Cuprica retreated. Her speed could not dismiss the redoubled glares of the slaves she passed, the servants beneath boot heels, the guards leering without restraint.

Only at Room Twenty-Three did she stop to lock herself within.


	23. I See People Turn Their Heads

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **I See People Turn Their Heads**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

Tope growled, a low rumble in his throat as he glowered at the beasts who gawked at him as they passed by - or ignored him entirely. Seated on a wooden stool, his collar chained to the wall behind him, he cursed every beast even remotely responsible for putting him on display. It wasn't enough that the Crater had given him a ridiculous moniker; it put him in a handy little box so the rich of Marshank could see who they were betting on. Maidens and gentlebeasts; young and old; guards and beggars; merchants and slaves; every one of them seeing him as little more than a pet for their amusement.

He wanted to ignore them, to not hate them, but with nothing else to do behind the iron bars, his lip curled as he watched them pass by, just as they had the last times he was on display.

His fights in the first two rounds had been swift and brutal, but apparently not amusing enough for the crowd. Despite Hale's insistence that he play along and give the audience something to cheer for, he had no intention of doing anything other than making it out of that arena. If his partner had thought more about fighting and less about soiling himself, Tope wouldn't be going out onto the sand alone tonight. It felt strange not to have someone to look out for, to protect. All eyes, including Fate's, would be on him alone.

In the midst of the crowd, an otter dressed in black leather strutted past the pen, his right eye a mottled mess of fading bruises. Tope saw a devilfish swimming through the crowd, acting as if his stinger hadn't been cut off. Just as he wondered where the image came from, it faded as quickly as it had come.

"Oy!" the stoat called out, "Um, Frostfang!"

The otter paused and looked around for the source of the voice, finally looking at the cage. Tope could see him trying to decide if the slave was worth his time, and fortunately the volunteer stepped up to the bars. "Don't call me that."

"I heard 'bout your last match."

"So did _every_ beast in this bleeding city!"

He turned to leave and Tope tried to stand, choking as his collar pulled at his throat. "Wait!" Frostfang started to walk off. "You're one o' the last decent beasts in this place and I want t' help you survive your next fight!"

The volunteer stopped and slowly faced the slave. Eyeing Tope's restraints, he stepped close to the bars, ignoring the looks of warning worn by the nearby guards. His eyes narrowed. "Help me out, huh? Have you taken a look at yourself lately? Looks like you need help more than I do."

A breath of a laugh escaped his lips. "Fair 'nuf. But still, I was there that night ye..." He lowered his voice. "That night after the Cullin'. Right honest thing ye did there."

"I suppose it was, but as far as this place goes, that's ancient history."

"Regardless, Fate's a friend to those like you, long as they stay on 'er good side." Tope tried to lean forward again and coughed as the collar closed around his throat again. Lip curling in annoyance, he stated, "But you gotta wrap your thick head 'round the fact that every beast in this infernal tournament wants to pound yer head into the ground 'til the crowd tells 'em t' stop."

Frostfang scoffed, "You think I don't know that?"

"Not well enough." The volunteer started to step away. "Yer mercy'll be what kills ye here!"

Tope noticed several heads turn in their direction. A few paused, their eyes recognizing the Frostfang and Two-Face.

"I'm done with you."

Trying to think of a way to get the Frostfang's attention, he heard Fate ask, _What's the boy's name?_

The otter turned and walked back up to the bars. " _You're_ calling _me_ 'boy'?"

 _Yer sulkin' like one._ Suddenly noticing that the other beast was answering Fate's question, he peered around, half-expecting Fate to be standing on the other side of the bars. _Did I ask that question?_ he wondered, before realizing that he was about to lose the volunteer's attention once more.

"My father, Dram Benwrath, made it out of this place 'bout six seasons ago. Far as I know, no one here knows what 'is real name was. Was hopin' I could call ye somethin' other'n 'Frostfang.'"

The beast on the other side of the bars seemed to relax a little. "It's Laurence. Laurence Copeland."

"Glad t' finally meet ye, Laurence Copeland."

Lowering his voice, the otter asked, "Did your father... talk much about this place?"

"He never spoke a word of it to me or me brother. Knowin' him, though, he sure didn' survive by wonderin' if the beasts tryin' t' murder him deserved a second chance."

Laurence threw his hands up in the air. "I lose _one_ fight, and suddenly everyone thinks I'm going to lay down and die the next time I step into the arena! I make _one_ mistake and suddenly I'm frail and helpless!"

"You wouldn't be alive if you were frail an' helpless." Tope sighed. "All I'm sayin' is that your next mistake could be yer last. Take it from a killer like me: if you don't go into that ring with the thought to immediately kill whoever it is they throw at you - be they a mouse, me, or your own partner - ye'll bleed out on that sand! And if yer _opponent_ don' kill you, that _crowd_ will!"

Laurence turned, finally aware of the small crowd of observers who were captivated by their conversation.

"All I'm askin'," Tope continued, "is that you think about how badly ye want t' live, Laurence Copeland. Hard t' be a goodbeast if yer dead."

After mulling over Tope's words, the volunteer nodded. "I'll think about it." Moving as close to the bars as he dared, he lowered his voice and stated, "I don't know much about Iwan, the beast you're fighting tonight, but he is fast. Figured you could... think about that."

"I will." The stoat watched the devilfish swim back into the crowd, and then concerned himself with his own upcoming fight.

~.~.~.~

"Welcome, one and all..." Wimmick's voice rang over the crowd, pausing as the noise of the crowd dimmed, "to tonight's main event!"

The crowd rang out in enthusiastic applause, hungry for the slaughter that would soon come.

"On this night of the Elder's Pyre... we celebrate the night Sir Denelor and Andrew of Mastiff came together in single-combat... in the dead of night... champions for the high-born House of Lily and the wealthy merchants of Mastiff. Hand-picked by their lords...their battle would end a feud of ten seasons, the origins of which are unknown to this day... but had left the land drenched in blood. To that end... here at the tenth hour, we present to you two beasts well known to this arena for their thirst for blood! Representing the champion for Lady Esmerelda Lily, a beast whose rapier is as quick as his wit, whose foes leave the arena in pieces... Iwan 'Dragon Face' Iblis!"

Through a slat in the door, Tope watched a tall, fox enter the arena. Raising his thin sword over his head, Tope - and every beast in the crowd - was able to see his red and white fur obscured by tattoos. Black and green and blue ink marred his hands and wrists, and all sorts of black dots and swirls marked his face. To some beasts it might appear exotic or intimidating, but Dram had always told him, _Never trust a beast who ain't content in 'is own fur! Good chance they're runnin' from somethin', but Fate can run faster!"_

Wherever the rat deputy was, Tope guessed he was sitting comfortably, guards at his back, a drink at his side, and a slave testing everything for poison. Once the crowd died down Wimmick continued."And the champion for the people of Mastiff, a stoat with the blood of a badger... who would turn a city to rubble with his bare paws... and beat a mountain into submission with his club, we present to you... Benwrath Two-Face!"

The door before him opened and he walked out onto the cold sand to a mixture of cheers and jeers. Tope didn't know a thing about this "Elder's Pyre" or some ridiculous family squabble, but he resented being forced to act in this absurd performance. His ears flattened as the noise from the stands pounded against his skull. With only one target to focus on, he felt every eye facing in his direction. Growing accustomed to a life of confinement, he hadn't felt so exposed in months. Another Culling felt preferable to this. **  
**  
As the two reached the center of the arena, Iwan raised his rapier in salute, the gesture of respect voided by the mockery in his golden eyes. "With the light on my side," he shouted to the crowd, "I shall not rest until my family's honor is restored!"

A few beasts cheered but the rest merely watched to see how the battle would begin.

Tope continued to approach, his left paw tightening on his club. "Should have brought a proper sword," he growled.

" _Louder!_ " Iwan hissed back as he faked a smile. "Let's give 'em a good show!"

"I'm not here for them," he continued, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm here for you!"

Tope ran forward and raised his club, aiming for the fox's masked face. Iwan squealed and quickly stepped to the side before regaining his composure and bringing his weapon to bear. As Tope turned, he watched his opponent shift his weight to his back foot before lunging forward, extending his rapier toward the stoat. A taller beast would have been skewered, but Tope was merely pricked on the shoulder before he was able to turn away.

 _Laurence was right. He_ is _fast._

Unaccustomed to "civilized" fighting, Tope had little experience against a rapier. Iwan continued to advance, lunging and slashing through the air with the thin sword as the cheers rose once more. Tope moved back, trying to knock the blade away with his club, but despite how frail the thing looked, the fox wielded it with surprising speed and skill. He tried to step to the left, but the rapier jabbed into his skin and he turned away. Ignoring the sting in his arm, he realized he was within range to strike. He continued to turn and raised the club.

The tip of the sword struck his left side.

He ducked forward, trying his best to get around the fox and kicked a leg out, trying to catch one of Iwan's. The fox jumped away, giving Tope just enough time to roll back onto his feet.

"Aren't you going to fight back?" the volunteer shouted, prompting a few shouts of agreement from the crowd.

Rather surprised that Iwan let him escape, he rushed forward and raised his left paw toward the beast's sword. The fox raised his arm to parry the blow and Tope dropped the club into his right paw before dropping to the ground. Swinging the club with all his strength, he clipped Iwan's shin, prompting a high-pitched yelp and a slough of cursing as he stepped away. Tope pushed himself forward, trying to get back inside of Iwan's guard, but the tattooed beast moved too quickly.

"Hold still, ye bloody bunny," he snarled.

Tope chased Iwan for a few paces before the fox regained his composure and began swinging his sword forward and forcing Tope back once more. Now angered that the slave had scored a hit, he pushed his attack with greater speed and finesse. Once he was pushed back toward the wall, Tope dove toward the ground once more and threw a pawful of sand at the beast before rushing forward.

Minute by minute the fight went on, the combatants taking turns pushing the other back, scoring the occasional hit, but neither managing a fatal blow. Sand flew, the two yelled and grunted and growled, but over time the crowd began to grow bored at how evenly the two were matched. Boos of frustration echoed through the arena as the chase went on and on.

Tope kept his eyes on his assailant, equally frustrated that he had not yet managed to put the fox down. Several times he considered just grabbing the blade like he'd done in the Culling, but the risk of failure was too great. With only his club, he had no way of slowing down his opponent, and was resigned to wait and see if the volunteer would tire first.

On they ran. Trying to watch where he was going, watching the movements of the rapier, and trying to see where Iwan's feet would land next, the arena began to blur around him. He reminded himself to stay focused, to stay alive. The sound of the crowd dimmed. The clash of rapier against the now-chipped club grew dull and muted. As he pushed forward, Iwan's face began to blur.

A figure in a light blue dress appeared next to the fox, examining both of them with curious eyes. Tope did his best to ignore fate. He had no time for her now.

"Who does he remind you of?" she asked.

Tope jumped back, stepping back just in time to parry another swipe at his head. His jaw fell open as he saw Iwan's face shift, his golden eyes turning blue, his red and white fur becoming white and black spines. August stared back, a look of hopeless determination on his face, the same one he wore as he worked on his cures as Ennis Benwrath lay dying.

Gasping, Tope shook his head. Iwan was before him once again.

Fate appeared to his right. "Look again."

Trying to stay focused on the fight, he couldn't help but see Iwan's face change again, becoming that of a black fox with white tips, her green eyes sad and afraid. _Kamilla!_ he whispered, the vixen's name still fresh in his mind. Then Fate showed him Jen, Yrvis, and Mary... all those who had failed him, had failed his family when they let his parents and brother die. All of them still wore that same mask of fear they'd had when Tope exacted his revenge. Every face pleaded for mercy, but Tope had shone none. He couldn't.

Iwan's blade cut Tope along his jaw. The stoat waved his club wildly in an attempt to distract Iwan, screaming at the fox in frustration.

As his opponent jumped back into Fate's waiting embrace, her eyes bored into Tope's soul. " _Look... again!_ "

Iwan's face changed once last time, and Tope stared into his own face. His normally dark brown fur was dull and soaked with sweat, and his nose was dry and cracked. He knew that look of fear in the face of death, the knowledge that the plague that had taken Dram and Clodagh and Ennis had now come for him. He heard his own cries for mercy as his head burned with fever and his body ached from head to tail. He wanted to die... but not as much as he wanted to live.

He froze, as did the world around him. Fate stepped lightly out from behind the simulacrum, pointing at a spot behind Tope. When the stoat turned, he gasped as he looked at the dark club held in his paw... in someone else's paw... in his father's paw. With the same expression of anger and determination, Dram Benwrath looked poised to strike down the volunteer before him. As Tope stared, blood began to slowly drip from his father's muzzle and a bruise formed around his right eye. The young stoat could still hear his father's battle cry as he fought to stay alive, to return to those he loved.

Fate gently touched his left paw. "There was honor in his death. Will there be honor in yours?" Iwan's face returned, confused and afraid. "Or in his?"

Tope gasped as the sounds of the crowd returned and he watched the fox skitter out of reach. Quickly glancing to the side, he saw that Fate had vanished. As the Iwan regained his composure, he heard her whisper into his ear, _Finish this._

"Ha!" he heard Iwan laugh. "Growing tired, little slave? Was that your other 'face' just now? Pathetic!"

This time, Tope felt no desire to teach the upstart a lesson. He simply wanted to survive, to end this charade, to give his opponent an honorable death. Running forward across the sand, he remembered the lessons his father taught him as he rained blow upon blow down on Iwan's blade. The fox was able to dodge most of them, but his steps were coming more slowly.

After a short time, Tope ignored the rapier as it cut into his left leg as he focused the arc of his club on the fox's left side. Too close to move away, the hunk of dark wood smashed down on Iwan's shoulder and the fox screamed out in pain. He tried to move back, to get away from the stoat, but Tope stayed in close. The slave took note of the tears that streamed down Iwan's face as he brought his rapier up, now fighting for his life.

The crowd began to cheer, though not nearly with the enthusiasm they'd shown at the start of the match.

Iwan's blade continued to cut through the air, but the larger weapon eventually took its toll. Unable to use his other hand, Tope noticed his grip beginning to slip. Striking again and again, Tope knew the match was over. He swung his club at the base of the blade, and with a dull clang, the weapon flew out of Iwan's hand. Tope stepped in and hooked his left leg behind Iwan's right before pushing the fox to the sand.

Screaming out in pain and trying vainly to crawl away, Iwan shouted out, "Show mercy! Please!"

"I don' want to kill you," he replied as he lifted the club, readying for the killing blow.

" _Kill! Kill! Kill!_ " the crowd chanted.

"Wait! You don't have to!"

"Only one of us-"

" _No no, wait!_ " He held his right paw weakly between them. " _I yield!_ " He stared toward the private box where Wimmick was watching the spectacle. "I can do that this round! Please have mercy! _I yield!_ "

Confused, Tope looked up towards the temporary Crucible Overseer, Wimmick. It was hard to make out his face, but his crossed arms and low ears showed clear disapproval. "Do I have t' kill 'im?" he shouted.

"No!" Iwan shrieked out desperately. "Not in the first three rounds of the Elder's Pyre. There just needs to be a winner. Hale Seftis said so!"

Despite his obvious anger, Deputy Wimmick did not order Tope to kill the volunteer. The stoat looked back down at Iwan.

"You remember this day, when some'un showed ye mercy, ye mangy maggot!"

Suddenly exhausted, he limped back toward the slave's exit. The heavily chipped club in his paw suddenly felt very heavy, so he dropped it, leaving it behind in the arena as he left behind the angry boos of an unsatisfied crowd.


	24. The Shape of Silence

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Shape of Silence**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _And so it began…_

~.~.~.~

Morning roll call rang before the first sliver of red broke across the horizon. Brasher beasts growled their disdain at the early summons, while others muttered their cowed acquiescence as they wiped crust from their eyes.

Bechtel stood by the bars of his cage as the others rose. Sleep avoided him the prior night, as it had become wont to do. Instead of the usual worries that kept him awake, it was anticipation that flooded his veins.

August's words, passed along the night before only as the barest whisper, returned anew to him like the historic clarion cry of Salamandastron—today was the day. By nightfall, he would be free of this horror.

He regarded the empty cot beside his own. Ander had not returned the prior night, and the weasel's whereabouts lay unknown. Despite this, an alarm did not follow last night's roll-call, leading him to believe that either the weasel was somewhere safe, or dead.

As the gates opened and the slaves trudged out to the morning meal, Bechtel tried to shake Ander from his thoughts. Molly had stressed multiple times that when the time came, she needed _everyone_ to be completely focused for the escape to work. Regardless of the weasel's fate, he was a distraction.

Yet the weasel remained upon his mind. The thick worker's fare – a grainy sort of porridge – tasted even more like sand in his mouth. Bechtel took frequent pulls of water to force the grit down.

Passing guards spoke of decreased trade in Marshank, the trade ships harbored under the fury of blizzards and gales. The Crucible, naturally, suffered first from winter's blockade.

"Beck!"

The bat choked on half-swallowed food, sputtering and coughing at the sudden voice. He needed no click to be sure of the beast's identity.

"Ander!" He smiled broadly. "Where have you _been?_ "

Ander waved his paws as he approached. "Shoo and bother that. We have far more important things to discuss, my friend!" He slapped the shoulder of a frail-framed mouse seated next to the bat. "In _private._ "

The mouse ducked her head and shrunk away from the table, leaving only Bechtel and Ander. The weasel eyed the bowl of porridge behind him, then pushed it away with a finger.

"They're still feeding us this dreck?" Ander scoffed. "Well, I won't have to bear it much longer." Catching the look on Bechtel's face, he leaned in, clasped his paws together, and let a roguish grin spread across his face. "I have found a way out of here."

"What? How?"

Ander shined his claws against the front of his coat. "It took a lot of cunning and wit, but Ander the Unassailable is no stranger to challenge and victory."

"But… how? I mean, that's… that's amazing!" Bechtel laughed in spite of himself. If Ander had his own escape plan, then the two of them could both escape this nightmarish place.

"I've happened on a few things, Beck. Did you know, for instance, that on the third floor on the east side of the Crucible, there is a half-patched hole _juuust_ large enough for a beast to fit through? I'm sure you don't, and I don't blame you. If everyone was as keen-eyed as me, they wouldn't trust any of us to do their common labor."

Bechtel furrowed his brow. "I don't see the—"

He leaned even closer, his face inches from Bechtel. "Did you also know that every day, the guards receive specific instructions for their routes? And that those orders are kept in an unlocked drawer in Captain Whip's office?" His grin deepened as he reached into his coat and withdrew half of a folded-up parchment. "And that I just so happened to grab it?"

Bechtel's eyes widened.

Ander tucked the paper back into his coat. "I know, I know, I _am_ rather astonishingly fantastic. But don't shower all your praise on me at once. It's sweeter over time."

Bechtel did not move. Like a stone dropping within his stomach, all emotions were cast aside save for one: horror.

" _Everything has been calculated, down to every step of the guards,"_ he recalled Molly telling him.

Ander took notice of his expression after a moment, and frowned. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be at least _somewhat_ happy to—"

"Don't do it tonight," Bechtel said.

Ander raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Save it for tomorrow, or the day after. Just, whatever you do, do not alter the routes tonight."

Ander's frown deepened. "Beck, I don't think you understand. I _stole_ this from Whip. If I don't get it back today, they'll know it's missing and force a search. I'm already risking my neck for this."

Bechtel snarled. "Then take it back! Steal it again some other day, just not this day!"

"What is wrong with you? I bring an easy shot at freedom, and you're telling me _not_ to use it?"

"Yes, I am!" Bechtel raked his claws over his scalp. "I can't tell you why, but trust me, you can't do this tonight."

Ander folded his arms. "Can't tell me _what,_ Beck?"

Bechtel gritted his teeth. "I just told you—"

"My ears work perfectly. In case you forgot, you _owe_ me. Now, I want the truth. What is this all about?"

" _Can you tell me that you trust him with everything you have? With not only your life, but the lives of each of us here?"_

Bechtel struggled to draw in a breath. "I… I can't."

Ander's expression faltered, and for a brief moment, Bechtel saw it: the hurt look in the weasel's eyes. A second passed, and Ander's eyes hardened.

"I see." He pushed himself from the table. "Hope you've changed your mind by tonight, because I'm leaving. With or without you."

Bechtel watched him leave, then slammed his wing against the table. The sound sent nearby slaves jumping at their tables, casting him sharp looks. He paid them no mind, resting his forehead against his claws. The half-eaten bowl of porridge before him lost what small flavor it had to offer.

~.~.~.~

The fox forebeast – Sorel Rendai – ushered his selection of slaves to the workgrounds of the day: a damp antechamber swelling with snow drifts issuing forth from broken walls. At once, the slaves set about tearing down the eastern wall, ripping rotted oak supports from their moorings and escorting trolleys of ruined stone from the hall.

Bechtel spared his work no thought, settling himself into the routine motions of the day's toils. The hail of picks and falling rock afforded him little concentration, and the chatter of nearby slaves swallowed any remainder.

"Have you heard about the fight tonight?" asked Dain, a young squirrel missing an ear, several teeth, and large patches of fur.

"Aye, th' Frostfang 'gainst that madbeast cannibal," a shrew named Fenwick said, spitting a gob of saliva into the cart. "Hope he gives him a proper lickin' fer all us decent beasts."

"Burr aye, he'm b'aint a bad sort, that Frostfang," offered the kindly, dim-witted Hilleby. "Stickin' up fer us folk loik he did at thurr feast."

Bechtel suppressed a snort, heaving another chunk of rubble into the cart.

"It's all the guards are talking about," Dain mused, resting his calloused paws against the rim of his steadily-filling trolley. "Word is even Wimmick's gotten in on the betting. Pot's up to six-hundred, and that's not counting the audience bets."

Fenwick snorted. "Don't hear nobeast bettin' that much on any of my fights."

"Maybe if you gave them a better show." The squirrel grinned with what few teeth he had. "My fight against Thistletail was a big upset, and now everyone is betting on my next one. Maybe I'll get a sponsor and some armor."

Fenwick shot him a glare.

"Well," Hilleby interjected, "it be thurr first foight 'tween volunteers. Oi can see why that'd be'm gurt show."

"Won't shed no tear either way. Volunteer's a volunteer, an' I'll kill 'em sooner or later."

"…I wish I was as confident as you are, Fenwick." The prior confidence melted from Dain's face as he chewed at his torn and chapped lip. "Do you… do you think they'll let the winner _and_ their partner go? You know, so that the two don't have to—"

"Dunno, mate. Hope so."

Hilleby scratched at his nose. "Wish Oi were foightin' in thurr Eldurrs Poi-ree. Have a chance t' go on back home."

Before he could stop himself, Bechtel laughed. The three beasts all swiveled their attention to him.

"What're you laughin' at?"

Bechtel considered murmuring an apology and letting the morning go on uneventfully. Whether bravery, adrenaline, or fool-headedness, he settled on widening his grin and continuing, "Listen to yourselves. Chattering about the guards placing bets, wishing a volunteer well, believing that they'll actually _let_ you go."

Several of the surrounding slaves glanced his way, their ears flicking. Bechtel noted Tope shooting him a particularly fierce glare. He ignored the stoat.

"Who knows? If you say 'yes please' at all the right times and be the good little thralls they want, then maybe they'll give you _just_ enough leash to let you walk around Marshank for a _whole_ day. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Several picks stopped striking the walls.

"Let them have their hope," Tope growled from across the hall.

"Hope?" Bechtel scoffed. "You're one to talk. We all know how you're Hale's little pet, and how has that been working for you? You're still here, hauling rocks with the rest of us."

Tope's grip tightened around his pick. "Keep your peace, or I will keep it for you."

 _Bechtel, these beasts are growing agitated,_ the echoes cautioned him. _Stop. You're drawing attention to yourse—_

He snarled further, ignoring the images playing out before him. "That wildcat is lying to all of you, stringing you along. Once you've done your part, you'll be cast aside like garbage." To punctuate his point, he dropped a stone into the cart. "And if you believe anything else, you're all stupider than you look."

"What… what do we do, then?" Dain muttered, his single ear drooping behind him.

"Figure it out for yourself," Bechtel spat.

None of the other slaves spoke. For the first time, Bechtel felt contempt for the collared beasts. Molly chose _him._ At first, that realization terrified him. It was unfair, wasn't it? To be singled out among so many beasts. And yet, now, he understood what she meant. Why she had commanded him to trust no one else.

Some beasts just weren't capable of understanding. They were too stupid, or trusting, or weak. They were so focused on surviving that they would die like everyone else.

The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly sent the watching slaves back to their duties. Dain shoved the full trolley away, and in his wake, Sorel stepped up.

"You." The fox snapped his fingers, gesturing for Bechtel to follow him.

Bechtel stepped behind the fox, casting a final glare back towards the slaves. Only Tope returned the look, disgust written on his face.

Sorel led him down the antechamber to an alcove towering with cords of lumber, stacks of stone, and barrels of unmixed fixative. The fox turned around and fixed him with a flat, disapproving look.

"Why do you antagonize your fellow workers?"

"I'm telling them the truth. Someone has to."

"You terrify them." In a surprisingly quick motion, Sorel grabbed his wing and stretched it out, prompting a wince from Bechtel. "You're injured. Why did you not inform me?"

Despite the pain, Bechtel managed a smile. "Thought it didn't matter to vermin like you."

"You grin in the face of your own poison." Sorel let the wing go. "Pity on the beast who is your partner."

Bechtel's grin faltered as his thoughts went back to Ander. The weasel, for all his flaws, was braver than most. Not even Bechtel had struck out on his own, stealing plans to earn his own freedom. And, like a growing sickness, he could see the future: the weasel limp against Marshank's sands, his crimson ebbing forth under the score of a thousand undeserved lashes.

"My work requires good and able workers. You are neither."

Bechtel winced. He growled at showing weakness before the fox, the growing grind in his throat only deepening when he realized the vermin was right. He had not stopped Ander from pursuing his plan, leaving the fellow slave to suffer while he left with the others. These were the actions of a coward.

He needed a solution. He needed a way to protect Ander, while leaving Molly's escape uncompromised.

"Come," Sorel beckoned.

Bechtel watched the fox pause by the threshold and cast back an expectant glance. Bechtel didn't bother lashing out a reply. He simply fell into step behind the forebeast, mind working on how to resolve the situation before him.

Sorel escorted him briskly through the antechamber, where several of the slaves whispered their speculations of his fate, most colorfully grotesque. Sorel stopped where an attachment of guards lounged atop a cornucopia of crates and barrels. Among them, Bechtel noted the presence of August.

"I need to exchange a worker," Sorel said with a curt tilt of his head.

The lead guardsbeast, a stoat named Ansley, furrowed his brow and slid down to his feet. "Givin' you trouble, this one? Don't worry, I'll fix 'im up fer you in no ti—"

"He's injured, and unable to carry out his assigned duties. I need strong beasts for this work—Cain promised me I would have them."

The stoat's whiskers twitched. "Yeah yeah, you'll get yer beasts." He grabbed Bechtel. "As fer this 'un…"

"There will be no punishing this one," Sorel interrupted. "He is only of use to me – and Cain – if he is allowed time to recover."

Bechtel shot the fox a look. Sorel appeared to not notice.

"Fine," Ansley muttered before yanking Bechtel away from Sorel. As the fox disappeared, Ansley growled. "Orderin' me around…" He faced the guards next to him. "Take this 'un an' give him a reminder of how things work 'ere."

August stepped forward first, putting on a grin. "I'll take this one, lads. Won't be his first time meeting my fists."

The guards around him chuckled as he clutched Bechtel's collar and yanked him down the hall. Soon, the smile disappeared.

"What'd you do, hmm?" August hissed. "We can't afford to have you bringing attention to yourself."

"I'm sorry," Bechtel said, wincing at the still-tight grip at his neck. "It just happened."

"Don't let it happen again. Molly's countin' on you for a lot, you know. Without you, this escape doesn't happen."

Bechtel's brow furrowed. Molly had - as of yet - not told him of his role during the escape, and he had never thought that he would be critical to its success. The pit in his stomach returned as he thought of Ander once more.

"August-"

"Hush. We shouldn't speak until tonight. The escape happens during the Frostfang's fight with the cannibal."

Bechtel pulled himself from the hedgehog's grasp and stopped. "No, you need to listen to me. We have a problem."

August scanned either end of the empty hallway, then folded his arms. "Make it fast."

The words hitched in Bechtel's throat. The solution lay before him, but he knew what it would cost. Forcing a deep breath, he spoke, "There's a beast who's stolen the guard's ordinances for tonight. He's planning on rewriting their routes, and-"

August held up a paw. "I understand. Who is it?"

"His name is Ander." Bechtel looked away. "Please, just don't hurt him. He's a good beast, and-"

August pushed Bechtel forward down the hall. "No more, hmm. I'll take care of it."

~.~.~.~

Beggar's Coast lay dark under the midday sun. The frozen sands drifted beneath his wandering feet, tossed by winter's sweep. The wind carried the sounds of distant clashing, training beasts striving to earn one more day. Beneath the roar of combat, something else flitted about the wind—unimposing and unwilling to fight the harsh sounds surrounding it, yet constant all the same. Like a wind chime ringing amidst a thunderstorm.

Bechtel ignored all the sounds, shielding his wings around himself. The bite of the unceasing wind and the itch of his soiled poncho muffled both whisper and clamor. He turned his thoughts to the Drag, though it still lay far ahead. Its hollow halls offered no warmth to his heart, and so his mind drifted from its cold.

" _Father, is everything all right?"_

 _Atrus' head jerked up from his cupped paws. He pinched at his eyes and straightened his spectacles with a cough. "Oh, it's nothing, son."_

Bechtel stopped. The memory shuddered like glass before him, and his claw rested on the pane. A single push and it would shatter, returning him to the frozen sands. He remained still, and so too did the memory. The heat of the mantel fire, the sunlight through veiled windows, the elder mouse seated at the grand desk—each waited for his permission to continue, and Bechtel found himself unable to say no.

" _Are you sure?" Bechtel set the basket of freshly-picked cherries on the end table, then stepped around his father's desk. He pressed the back of his wing to Atrus' forehead. "Is it the tremors again?"_

 _Atrus swept his limb aside. "I'm fine." He cleared his throat and offered a too-bright expression—something that was becoming a habit. "Tell me, how is the orchard? Retler says the bees were particularly helpful this year. I'm hoping for a good harvest."_

 _Bechtel hesitated. "It's… already fall, Father. Harvest began last week."_

 _Atrus squinted his eyes, then drew in a rattled breath. "Yes, yes, of course. Silly of me. You know how my mind tends to wander."_

 _Bechtel looked at the parchments and torn envelopes splayed across the desk. He picked one up at random. "What is this?"_

 _Atrus snatched the paper from Bechtel's grip. "Nothing for you to worry about."_

 _Bechtel frowned. "Is it the Gerthwins again?" His fur bristled. "They're villains! The whole lot of them! They can't take our house, and to prove it, I'll march over there myself and—"_

" _You'll do no such thing!" Atrus snapped._

 _Bechtel staggered back, wincing at how deep the rage creased his father's face. Then, the expression crumbled, leaving only the old, withering mouse._

" _Leave this to my paws, son," Atrus whispered. "I don't want you coming to harm."_

 _Bechtel drew himself back up to height, snout twitching. "As you say," he grumbled before turning and stomping his way out of the study. Out through the doorway, he took to the skies to burn the troubles that wore upon his mind._

The rush of wind grew cold, the freedom shackled once more to memory. Bechtel staggered back with a gasp. At the sound, he noticed arcane forms carved into the sands, the strokes shivering from the imperfect touch of a student.

 _The most important letters!_ he recalled Ander chirping, drilling the motions and strokes into his memory. _Practice them every day, every night, every waking moment! You'll be a sorry beast indeed if you forget them._

A breath of wind swirled the sand around his heels, and as if by the Spirits' fingers, the letters vanished from sight.

Bechtel frowned, casting a look upwards. "I've done what I can. This is how it has to be."

The words emerged dry and hollow. Bechtel snarled and kicked at the sand.

"What, should I just stay and suffer? I did what I could to help—at least this way he won't die!"

The beach remained empty, and yet Bechtel felt the presence of a hundred eyes settle upon him. Huddling himself deeper into his wings, he trudged towards the cliffs that towered along the slave grounds.

"I have an opportunity, finally," he huffed. "For something more. Ander would _want_ me to take this, if he knew!"

Under the shadow of the stone, the world whispered behind him, though the cold still clung to his fur.

"Molly chose me. She trusts me, and I can't betray that. I won't!"

Her image settled in his mind, and a flicker of warmth sparked within his chest. He smiled, first to spite the Spirits, then it grew as he reflected upon his mentor.

When he faltered under the weight of the Crucible, she pulled him back to his feet. Where he had suffered loss, she had risen above her weaknesses to lead. Where he despaired, she stirred hope in the beasts around her.

She was brave. She was wise. She was everything he was not. In the dark of his thoughts, when the world calmed and he shut his eyes, she was all he could see—splendid and beautiful.

And once they were beyond these walls – far from this terrible, terrible place – perhaps she could be something more. Perhaps he could stop searching for a home, and finally have one. Perhaps Molly would find it in her heart fitting to stay with him, and he with her.

 _Would Atrus be proud of you?_

So sudden, so unbidden was the thought that Bechtel whirled to see who voiced it. When he saw none behind him, he turned his glare to the sun above. He quickly felt his eyes water, but he resisted the urge to look away from his enemy.

"Leave me alone, you cursed phantasm!" he shouted. "You've already ruined everything—take your claws from me for once, and let me have this!"

The harsh, formless glare of the sun did not waver. Bechtel ripped his gaze away and rubbed at his eyes, angrily scrubbing the tears away.

"You do not have to shout."

Bechtel froze. For a moment, he considered that the Spirits had deigned to respond to him. But this voice did not arise from the shadowed dark of his mind—this was tangible, and marred with an odd lilt he recognized at once.

"Whispers are heard as easily as screams," Cuprica added with a slight nod.

Bechtel scrubbed the last wetness from his eyes before it froze in place. "Don't eavesdrop on me, vixen."

"Your screeching is hard to ignore."

His snout twitched at her choice of word, but the painter did not regard him with any disdain or hatred. In fact, she did not regard him at all, her head tilting to and fro as she focused upon the sky, then the sands, then back to the sky. An expectant yet distracted air hung about her, as if she waited for a passing insect to steal her away.

"Try harder, then," he grumbled.

Cuprica stepped closer, a paw brushing against his wing.

"You tremble. Why?"

A bark formed in Bechtel's throat as he shoved her from his side. It died as he heard her hum. The cadence rose and fell in irregular patterns, but he recognized the melody immediately.

"Stop. Stop right now." His voice broke with a frantic edge. "I told you not to sing that song."

"But it is beautiful. Why do you stop me?"

"It's not for a place like this. Not… for beasts like this."

She nodded, interlocking her fingers together. He couldn't tell if it was some sort of signing gesture, or mere restlessness. "It comforts you. That is why you sing only when you think no one listens."

Bechtel stammered for a response when she swept past him. She headed away from the Drag towards the wall that spanned cliff and Crucible, a soaring embankment that blotted out all sight of the city beyond. At a rock's throw away, she stopped to gesture at him.

"Come," she said. "I would show you my work, if you would see."

He hesitated. At the vixen's presence, at her theft of his song, at the long-shunned memories that seemed eager to revisit his dreams and nightmares. The painter simply waited, staring at him with neither expectation nor impatience—just simplicity.

He had noticed it even in the mess hall, how a distance spanned her and the other freebeasts. Her parting confession returned to him, as curious now as it had been: _"Not all slaves wear collars."_

Bechtel turned and clicked. The entrance to the Drag lay close, but in its shadows, he knew the Spirits' games lay waiting for him, tinged with malice and fury. He would find no peace in the stone halls.

With a sigh, he followed after Cuprica. "You waste your time, vixen. I cannot see your paintings."

At his approach, her features brightened and her tail swished with greater energy, though no smile crossed her face. "Yes, your eyes. They are special, aren't they."

Atrus used to say the same thing.

"…I suppose they are."

"Then they will see this."

Waiting no further, she turned and ambled her way to the wall. She stopped by the far edge, head scanning the skyline in a loose, wandering way. She didn't seem to notice him until he stood but a paw's reach away, and even then, only regarded his presence with a flick of her tail.

With a frustrated huff, he faced the wall and peeled back the dark with his voice, "I told you, I can't—"

Bechtel froze. There, on the aged stone, lay an image. It was as if the waves of an ocean had been stopped, and for once, he could truly grasp the form and image. Ten-thousand paint strokes melded together, pressing out from the wall in sweeping reliefs. To a passing viewer, the cacophony of paint must surely look like the product of madness, but to Bechtel… he saw it.

He saw the figure of a beast. Sharp triangles formed a ring of fur crowning the neck, while large loops poked out for ears. Two-crescent-like arcs with draping bottoms spread out on either end of the image, and draping outfit hung over the beast's shoulders. The beast looked to the sky, though his eyes remained shut. Above, wild circles shaped the vibrancy of the sun, gracing the beast with its light like the dawn of spring. At its presence, the beast smiled.

For the first time, Bechtel saw himself.

Mirrors spoke to beasts' eyes in a language his echoes did not understand. He knew what he looked like, but only in a removed, clinical fashion: two wings; long snout; bushy fur; and beady, blind eyes. For once, he saw himself as others might see themselves. Upon the cracked, dusty stone, he reflected more vividly than on the most polished of silver mirrors.

Bechtel reached out a claw, touching it upon the figure's wing. No hole pierced through the membrane. This beast on the wall was whole.

Bechtel felt a chill. A sinking chill that settled in his stomach like a festering rot.

"This… this isn't me," Bechtel muttered, taking a step back from the painting.

He felt Cups reach for him, but he paid no attention. He staggered back from the painting as a tight feeling rumbled throughout his entire body. The imperfections loomed before him as a mirror of their own.

 _Where are your lies?_ the echoes asked, scouring the face of the painted bat for purchase. They crept to the body. _Where is your fear?_ They swept along to search the wingtips. _Where is the work of your claws?_ Finally, they stopped at the feet. _Where is the blood you have spilled?_

"I don't deserve this," he gasped.

Before Cups responded, Bechtel spun away and charged from the wall. The painting and the fox disappeared behind him as he ran into the cold, biting winds.


	25. An Ending Beginning

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **An Ending Beginning  
**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

 _What was I thinking, telling him? Trusting him? He has a large ego if he dares to... to knowingly scorn the idea of our friendship, which is so tangible, so real!_

Ander slammed his paw down on his violin, a gnarled frown stealing over his face.

 _My first real friend...whom would rather stay here and_ die _than risk coming with me. Does he not trust me? Have I done him some unaccountable wrong? Or does my appearance make him jealous past his dealing?_

The weasel sniffled and buried his face in his claws, unable to deny the obvious truth. Bechtel was not only devoid of sight, but he could not see anything about Ander that he felt was worthwhile enough to stay at his side. Would the bat even mourn if Ander's plan failed?

"It's because I'm a vermin," he whimpered aloud, "That's why Beck does not like me."

He sat up straight and peered around the cell and at Bechtel's empty bunk. The instrument laid on his lap. Ander had been allowed time to practice a song that August was particularly fond of, but the weasel sighed and plopped the violin behind him. He no longer needed it.

Tonight, once he was free, he would be able to get himself a better, newer violin. Besides, why take it? It wasn't as if it would help to do much of anything save slow him down. Plus, when climbing down the tower...no, there was certainly no need for a violin.

Ander rose and wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve. Would Bechtel want something to remember him by? He could certainly leave the instrument on his friend's bunk, if the bat didn't want to forget him all together.

 _You're kidding. He would not want this._

Ander placed it where his former friend slept all the same, and then crept over to the exit. The sun would soon set, and all activity in Marshank would slow to a crawl.

He fumbled in his pocket for the folded up schedule- containing the listings of each sentry and their shifts. Ander had spent most of that afternoon editing the shifts to give him enough time to escape.

Exiting his cell, Ander made his way out of the Drag and into the upper levels of the Crucible. Since he was now a performer, his name was taken out from the roster of the Elder's Pyre Tournament. The new marking of three lines intersecting on his slave's collar gave him the ability to roam the halls, so long as it was during the daytime and not at night or during tourney fights.

Ander came out into the expansive Hall of Champions and started to approach the main bluejacket barracks when he came across a familiar face: the tattooed fox gladiator that tried to kill him in the Culling.

He appeared to be surrounded by his adoring fans, signing autographs and accepting gifts and care packages from them. Ander noted with enthusiasm that the vulpine's face was locked in a frown and his frame was littered with bruises. Several bluejackets that were supposed to be on guard were amongst the crowd.

Ander ended up stealing past them and into the main barracks. Most of the blue soldiers were either in the mess hall eating their grub or out patrolling the hallways.

With quick movement and precision, the weasel dodged past a trio of bluejackets deep in conversation. He dropped off the sentry's ordinance on the Deputy's desk and scurried through the back door.

Afterwards, Ander hid himself inside of a large crate near the stairwell leading back down to the lower levels. He began to wait until nightfall.

To pass the time Ander watched the accompanying shadow on the far end of the crate slowly crawl up the wall until completely gone. _What is wrong with Beck? Did I make a mistake by lowering my guard and befriending him? No, impossible..._

The sound of heavy footfalls and clinking chains passing through attracted his attention. Somebeast walking openly in the halls, this late at night? Once the sound began receding, he peeked out. He caught a glimpse of dark fur, tattered cape, black surcoat and gauntlets. _Silver crown sewn into the skull._ It was the surly ferret from that day Ander first arrived to the Crucible.

He did not have a guard accompanying him, and Ander knew for a fact that the ferret did not have permission to come and go as he pleased. But the weasel shook away his concern; the situation did not pose an issue. He walked away in the opposite direction, anyways.

Ander made his way into the labyrinthine lower levels, and toward the collapsed wall, the one he knew still required reconstruction. Nobeast knew about the possible entryway, Ander felt certain about. Just Bechtel and himself, the only two creatures in the entire Crucible.

But the sounds of overlapping voices ahead instilled doubt in his mind. There was not supposed to be anybeast down here, Ander changed the schedules to leave the halls with the secret exit unguarded for the next hour. Rounding the corner, he saw a pair of sentries lounging nearby, backs against the wall.

 _No... this ruins everything, they're not supposed to be here._ Ander contemplated on simply waiting for the next time an opportunity arose, but who knew when that would be? The weasel took in a deep breath, and instead surged forward. Past the two guards and towards the exit.

"'Ey, wot d'ye think yer doin'?" said one of them from behind. "Y' aren't allowed down 'ere!"

Ander heard the pawsteps behind him and quickened his pace. He heard the pawsteps gaining.

 _Just a few more feet, and I'll be home free-_ Heavy paws grabbed him by the shoulders and tackled him straight to the ground.

"No! Let me go! No, no! You can't do this to me!" screamed Ander, trying his hardest to wrest free from their hold. "You can't do this!"

One of the guards laughed cruelly as he tightened his grasp. "Hahar, hope y' like living in darkness, cause a liddle 'scaper like yerself deserves nothin' but the lower dungeons!"

Ander's eyes widened at the revelation. Everything was hitting him at once. The lower dungeons. Where creatures were left to disappear, or die, or to be completely forgotten about and fade into obscurity. His death sentence.

The weasel saw who stood behind them, watching with disdain. August the hedgehog only shook his head while tutting, not saying a word.

"Please, Aug, don't let them take me to the dungeons, Aug, I swear I'll behave... please... Aug... I'm begging you!" The hedgehog did not respond. He made eye contact with the weasel for a couple seconds before turning and walking away.

The obese rat bluejacket gave a chuckle. "Don't worry, liddle 'scaper- we'll have some fun with yer before we leave y' to rot in the dark! I'll make sure you never try to 'scape ever again! Hahahar!"

Once the two guards were finished with placing him in shackles they roughly brought him to his footpaws, before escorting him away from the collapsing wall.

Down into the lower levels of The Drag.

Where no light shined through.

No company to be kept.

No food or water given.

Ander distinctly remembered idling at the top of the stairs, trying to stall for as long as possible. It didn't work, of course, and the two sentries prodded him down the stairs with their spears.

Into the overwhelming darkness and out from the light.


	26. War Prayer

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **War Prayer**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

"'You came to the right creature. I will not fail you'. What in the Fates was I thinking?" grumbled Laurence while he was crossing over a frozen riverbank. _I wasn't thinking at all. That's my problem._

Snowfall was coming down fast, and while there was no wind - _Thank the Fates_ \- the snowy white earth seemed ready to swallow him up. He clambered on top of a nearby rock and surveyed the landscape. Only when he was certain that he was headed the right way did he jump back into the snow below.

The plan had been simple; he was supposed to travel to an apothecary on the edge of hand the letter over the the apothecary shopkeep- an elderly volemaid. How was she expected to make it to the Seascar in one piece? She ended up paying him four copper coins to deliver the letter in her stead. So he made his way to the Seascar. He was looking for a courier, who would find Vikkars' army and deliver the letter.

Reaching up halfway to his knees, Laurence found it tough to lift his legs out and over. Small patches of blood were trailing after the otter. His left footpaw still bleeding from a shard of glass he stepped on in the apothecary. And to make matters worse, his torch was slowly dying.

Much to his relief the mercenary could take solace in all of the dancing lights ahead of him. He could sense the nearby presence of his destination, the Seascar- the meeting to take place behind the ship's hull, overlooking the coast.

The Seascar was an infamous tavern, built into the hull of an ancient ship once sailed by a legendary pirate captain and his crew before it was run aground. It now remained a blemish on the stretch of tundra coast nearby. According to numerous sources, it was south of Marshank Settlement and southwest of the Crucible.

Laurence had no idea what to expect from the clandestine meeting. He was worried with upsetting Vikkars- the ferret made it very explicit that his instructions were to be followed down to the letter. The old vole was supposed to be the one who met with the courier. But surely there was no harm in Laurence being the one to deliver the letter, was there?

The Seascar was an impressive sight. The entrypoint of the tavern was a hole in the ship's hull. The small pediment obscuring the front entryway of the ship did little to prevent snow from getting inside. On the former deck of the ship was a string of connected tents and compact buildings.

Laurence warily eyed the dozen seafarers and traders loitering about the entrance as he trudged through the bank of snow over to the backside of the seaship. A pair of rats in a heated argument came trudging outside, prompting the otter to speed up his pace moreso.

There was nobeast out there, but after a second glance the otter noticed another creature keeping a low profile behind a large rock and arctic willow bushes.

"Once the lark finds himself in a hurricane-" said the voice from behind the rock.

"He finally awakens." Laurence gave a quick wave. "Hello there. I take it you're the courier I'm supposed to be meeting with?"

The hefty stoat courier stepped out into the open. "Aye, that I am."

Laurence scanned him over for any weapons or signs of hostility and saw none. But still he kept on guard. The courier was wearing a thick, all-consuming coat. It was not impossible for him to be hiding a weapon in his front; the stoat looked a bit portly to be a courier.

The otter stepped forward and approached with caution, letter outstretched. The courier accepted the sealed letter and pocketed it inside the layered frock coat.

"You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?" said the stoat, cocking his head to one side. "I can't place my claw on it, but I recognize your face..."

 _Uh oh._ The otter gave what he hoped was a noncommittal shrug before stammering his reply, "It must b- I hear that all the time. I guess I have one of those faces, you know-"

"Ahh, now I remember. I know you from the Crucible arena posters, you're the Frostfang!" said the stoat. His eyes narrowed, arms crossed. "Which makes me wonder, why somebeast who has so much to gain from the Crucible is willing to throw it all away."

The words left Laurence's mouth before he could keep them in check. "Take another look at me: I'm not from here, this place isn't my home. Marshank is plagued with a multitude of problems. The first one that comes to mind is the enslavement of innocents. And that's only the tip of the awful iceberg."

"You're right, I am sorry for the suspicion. You can never be too careful, you know. I want to thank you for meeting me here. Together, we are fundamentally changing Marshank and the Crucible for the better."

The mercenary's spirits were lifted at the stoat's genial nature. "Yes, indeed we are."

Without another moment to spare, the courier turned face and marched to the northwest with a steady pace.

Laurence observed with a sense of pride before speaking into the winds. "Right then. So I suppose a couple celebratory drinks at the Seascar are in order..."

He started to work around the back of the ship's hull towards the front. Change was finally coming to Marshank. _And soon I can say that I've made Marshank a safer place._

Safely underneath the wooden pediment and out of the harsh weather, Laurence unbuttoned his jacket. As he finished a familiar face by the entrance caught his eye. The mercenary threw out a wave to the bluejacket. "Hey! Ansley!"

Ansley took a final puff from his pipe before pocketing it. "Laurence! What a great surprise."

"I didn't know you would be here." said the otter with enthusiasm. "Let's go and find some seats inside."

The interior of the Seascar was quite the spectacle; dozens of shipyard workers and constructors were lined up in seats by the counter facing harried bartenders. They were all jovially singing a sea shanty.

Ansley and Laurence took up a pair of seats next to a quartet of bluejackets watching the processions from the bar.

"Comrades. I'm sure that by now you've heard of the Frostfang by now." The other bluejackets raised their glasses.

One of them, a brawny weasel, leaned forward in his seat and added, "You know, thanks to you, business is booming around here. Everybeast loves a good rebellion storyline."

"Rebellion storyline? What does that mean?" said Laurence.

"That's the angle you were going with for your character background, right? Rebelling against the Marshank norms, as a way to attract audience members to all your fights? It hasn't been done in the Crucible for quite a long time. Creatures 'round here seem to adore the act."

Laurence ignored the passionate emotions flaring up and responded with a simple, "Sure. It's just an act."

While the bluejacket guards talked amongst themselves, the otter tilted his head and scanned over the heads of other patrons to get a good look at the other side of the ship. Near the back wall was a row of foliage growing from under the ship's boards.

"This place is wild," he yelled over the ruckus, "Do you come here often?"

Ansley nodded. "Aye. Not so much anymore, though."

"First round is on me. Name your drink." The mercenary raised the gold coins locked in his claws.

"I stopped drinkin' as of last week, actually. Drinkin' has been a serious addiction of mine for many years. And even though it took many months of weanin' and deliberation, but I finally did it. So ah, thanks fer the offer, but no thanks mate."

Laurence nodded while he flagged down a barkeep. "I respect that. One of my uncles died from a drunken stupor. Addiction and reliance runs in the family, sad to say. Same thing with my father. Then he took a tumble and now he has water in his brain. Or, at least he did, last time I saw him."

"How long has it been since ye saw your family?"

"Eleven seasons now, I think. It'll be twelve once spring comes around."

"I know you aren't from here, so just so you're aware, winters stay a bit longer up here in the northlands than it does down south. Yesterday was the start of the new year, so perhaps another eight weeks of snow left."

 _The start of the new year...?_ The mercenary took a moment to tally up the math in his head. _Has it really been three weeks since I first arrived to Marshank with Bertram and the caravan?_ To Laurence the memory of his arrival felt distant. Almost foreign, as if from a lucid dream. That was a long time to be stuck in one place for Laurence.

He refocused his gaze away from the pair of brawling mice and to the mug in his claws. Laurence raised his drink in the air to nobeast in particular before chugging the contents.

"Copeland. There's something I need to tell you about."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"There's... no easy way t' put this, so I'll just say it. I've been using you as a way t' get a raise. An' a promotion too. The bluejackets of the Crucible have the option to become trainers in between their guard shifts. So it started out as a way to make more money, but I like you, Laurence. So I am only going t' be honest with you from now on."

Laurence chugged the refill almost as quickly as the first. "Doesn't surprise me. Everybeast here has been screwing me over, one way or another. But I appreciate the honesty, friend."

The otter brought his half-empty container closer to Ansley, who stared at it for a moment of confusion before giving a laugh. The stoat mimicked the action of bumping a mug against Laurence's own.

For a moment the two unlikely friends sat there in silence. They took in the convivial atmosphere while all the creatures around them engaged in scattered dialogue.

Laurence began cracking his claws when Ansley started again. "So. Are you nervous about your big fight against Kahmabutcha tomorrow?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm going to destroy that arrogant zealot," said the mercenary with a smile.

A couple glasses more and many conversations later, Laurence made his way back to the Windy Bastion in the Crucible. The world was swaying and rippling before his eyes, but he didn't mind. The only thing Laurence consciously noted from the returning trip was the countless grim-faced sentries staring him down while he would passed by.

The solemnity came back to the mercenary once he reached his living quarters. Lying on his bed was his oldest remaining friend, Sondern. He began tucking the iridescent sword under the covers and spoke in a quiet, friendly tone.

"Everything's coming together now. Finally I have seen what my purpose is here, Sondern." Laurence himself got under the covers after shedding his thick jacket and folding it up. "I can say that I've made a difference. Or at least, that I actually made an attempt. And even if there was not-"

"Oh fer cryin' out loud, not this act again... Quit talkin' to your sword, mate! It's an inanimate object. Some of us are tryin' to sleep over here!"

He shot the divider between him and his closest roommate an angry scowl, but at their insistence Laurence fell into silence.

~.~.~.~

 _He was back home. Back in the Copeland Estates, in the Copeland Manor._

 _Both of his brothers, Shadder and Royen were there. Father in healthy condition. Mother, present as well._

 _Each of them sat in their assigned seats around the dining room table. Laurence followed suit and took his familiar place at the end of the table._

 _Shadder was regaling the others with another tale of the war. Most creatures clammed up after experiencing warfare, but Shadder had the peculiar habit of running his mouth. Laurence always suspected that this was a coping mechanism of his. He lost a lot of close friends during the War._

 _Royen peered at the elder brother with wide eyes, a spoonful of food halfway to his mouth now stopped dead in their tracks. He hardly spoke- only when the undying, unanswered questions begged him to._

 _Mother glanced to and fro in every direction. Her unabated matronly nature was never at rest. She told Shadder to not chew with his mouth open, prodding Royen to eat more so he could grow big and strong like his elder brother._

 _Father had the same look in his eyes like they always did. The contents on his plate were long gone. His claws were steepled, eyes staring holes into the placard above the fireplace, where the Copeland family sword once laid._

 _Laurence caught wind of the lull in the conversation, and took his chance to change the subject. Nobeast turned in his direction. Again, he tried, and again to no avail. Somebeast made a jest about one of Shadder's war buddies losing their ear to an arrow, to uproarious laughter._

 _The mercenary was a ghost. Long forgotten, ever lost. He lifted his voice as loud as able. But his family never caught wind._

~.~.~.~

The sounds of the living world compelled him to snap his eyes open. Just a moment ago, somebeast closed a door. Voices in the hallway outside. The sound of a torch being snuffed out.

On the other side of the wide room, rays of sunlight filtered through the window. Laurence gave a big yawn and began to stretch out his limbs. _Today is the big day._

Laurence mentally noted that it would be in his best interest to seek a counsel with Vikkars sometime before the evening- if anybeast knew how to dissect and discover another creature's weaknesses, it was the Prisoner King.

He donned his jacket and headed out the dormitory double doors toward the gladiator's mess hall.

 _It's not snowing today. A welcome relief._ The mercenary looked through the lines of windows as he filtered past. Only an empty white canvas greeted him, no snowfall.

In the mess hall, Laurence sat alone and ate in silence. The typical, the average meal experience for the otter in the Crucible. All around him were the all-too-familiar faces.

Iwan was cautiously glancing in the direction of Laurence every so often. The fox was cognizant of all the daggers that the otter was glaring his way. _He has no idea that what he is doing here is wrong. He's a psychopath._

Laurence's temperament brightened significantly when he saw that the fox was mottled with cuts and bruises all over. _He must have lost his fight to that one prisoner. Two-Face._

Sitting approximately one table behind him and to the left, Laurence could hear the loud and harsh voice of his enemy. Kahmabutcha. The heathen was boasting over his facile bracket run. _Keep talking, scumbag. I'll make you eat those words later tonight._

While in the midst of a mouthful, a lean woodland otter in a homespun tunic sat himself down next to Laurence.

"Good morning, friend! The name is Darby. Can I interest you in a wood pigeon egg?"

Laurence stared at the creamy white oval uncomfortably close to his face. "None for me. I'm already eating here."

The newcomer made a clicking sound with his tongue. "I certainly hope you will come around, friend. Everybeast knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day! How do you expect to win your tourney match tonight?"

"I'll manage. Now please, leave me."

As the peculiar otter trundled off, Laurence watched with utter confusion. _Who was that guy? I've never seen him in the Crucible before... Is he a gladiator?_ Perhaps he was one of the many spies in Marshank. But then why would he approach Laurence so brazenly?

The mercenary soon forgot the bizarre exchange, when he caught sight of a certain black-furred creature with beady eyes peering at him from the other side of the mess hall. Laurence could see he was moving his mouth but couldn't tell what they were saying from so far away.

Laurence stood to his footpaws and marched toward the unsettling prisoner. They did not move or flinch, only staring in defiance as he closed the distance.

"Bechtold, right? I have been meaning to talk with you."

"Oh, the mighty Frostfang has graced me with his presence," the bat muttered, prodding at his uneaten food. "Come to gloat about your wins, or describe all the clever ways you'll slaughter me? Don't bother; I've heard it all from your fellow butchers already." He shot a savage look back towards the volunteers.

"No... I'm not here to do any of that." Laurence was stinging from the bitter words but he did his best not to show his emotions. He continued, stone-faced, "I wanted to thank you."

Surprise broke the disgust from the bat's face. "...what?"

Laurence's mind fluttered back to the conversation he had with Vikkars yesterday. An army on the horizon. A tidal wave of change. The otter dearly wished he could shed light on what was in store for the future, but everything about the plan hinged on total secrecy.

"Nobeast told me about the true nature of this place when I first came here. They did not think it was important enough to mention the atrocious treatment of other creatures. So I just wanted to thank you for being the only one who was real with me from the start."

The bat stared for a long time. Laurence twiddled his fingers together, then moved to get up from the table.

"It's Bech- _tel_ , by the way." Bechtel puffed his chest out slightly. "And you're welcome." He seemed to think for a moment, then smirked. "For what it's worth, whether it's an act or not, your whole defiance routine is doing more good than you know."

"Right. Bechtel." Laurence began speaking again, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop himself, "Well, this place will certainly be changing soon enough-"

Behind the both of them, a bluejacket sharply connected two iron pots until everybeast grew quiet. "Breakfast time is over now. All of you volunteers, get to movin' out of here!"

Bechtel and Laurence both took the opportunity and went their separate ways.

~.~.~.~

Another stab and hack. Laurence narrowly avoided the two swinging blades, dodging right. He brought Sondern down and knocked the sword out of his opponent's claws.

The two opponents jumped back from the falling weapon. The otter went for a swing and Sondern contacted with the opposing dagger.

Laurence backpedaled and realized far too late that there was a footpaw in his path, and he fell. The snow softened his impact, but his enemy leapt on top of him.

The dagger came down.

"I concede, I concede," said Laurence bitterly, holding his paws up in defeat.

His training partner, Drugaen Vikkars, picked himself off from the otter. "That was awful. You made your move too early and left yourself exposed." He sheathed the weapon and scowled. "Do you not remember anything I taught you? Choose your moments wisely. Don't strike at the first opportunity. Wait for the right moment."

Laurence picked himself back up. Voices of onlookers and other gladiators did not go by unnoticed. He ignored the whispers and faced upwards. _The sun is at its peak. I have but only a few more hours until the fight._ "Right. You're right... I need to be more patient. But what they did to Sondern, they rounded the edges of the blade-"

The Prisoner King snapped at the all-too-familiar lamentation, "Yes, I am enlightened on what happened to your sword, you can quit reminding me of that."

All of the murmuring voices in the courtyard slowly tapered off, and Laurence turned to see what happened. The Crucible Administrator, Hale Seftis, had made an appearance.

The once animated wildcat was standing beside the crumbling statues. He looked only a shell of his former self: face pale, uncontrollably trembling, leaning hard against a wooden cane. Behind the administrator were a pair of armed soldiers.

"Ah. Mister Vikkars, Mister Copeland. Good afternoon to the both of you," croaked Hale.

Laurence jumped at the irregular voice. What was the wildcat doing out here? Wasn't he bedridden from the sickness?

As if he had read Laurence's mind, Hale added, "I was starting to go mad from being cooped up in that old infirmary for so long. Seeing you beasts fight does a Seftis good, you know."

Drugaen Vikkars gave a nod but said nothing. Laurence only crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

"Mister Copeland, it looks as if there is something you are dying to get off your chest. Would you care to enlighten us?" asked Hale while raising an eyebrow, a faint glimmer of his old self resurfacing.

Laurence blamed Hale personally for being stuck in this terrible place. Hale Seftis was the one who knew of the mercenary's disgust for indentured servitude, yet still handed him that contract and offered the job. The administrator was now on the training grounds, no more than five paces away from the Prisoner King and The Frostfang.

"Yes. I do have something to say." The wildcat animatedly cocked his head to the side, which only further aggravated Laurence. _Is he playing games with me?_ "Is everything a joke to you?"

"Not quite, Laurence. All of your behavior and actions, I take to be the most serious of businesses." Hale waved his guards back. "We can speak in private, if it would suit-"

"Why did you let me sign that contract, huh? You knew I was going to be such a problem for the Crucible- that I hate how this institution is run. You knew..."

Hale smiled. "My, this is quite the ethical dilemma you have found yourself in." At Laurence's scowl, the smile disappeared. "Yes. Of course I knew you weren't aware of the Crucible's ways. I knew that you would hate me for it." He steepled his paws atop his cane. "And I also _know_ that you have a righteous heart. Tell me, Copeland, now that you are here, do you wish to leave?" He shook his head. "No. Now that you know what's going on, _you can't leave_."

Laurence turned his gaze to the ground. Even though the wildcat was partially right, he made a conscious decision to take every word out of Hale's mouth with a grain of salt. The last thing that the mercenary wanted was to be taken advantage of.

"You lied to me. You lied to me! On that day you recruited me, you said whoever comes through those Crucible doors is here because they want to be!" Face burning, the otter jerked a claw toward the Hall of Champions.

Hale sighed. "Laurence, you need to work on asking better questions. You asked if everybeast that walks through _that_ door, Cain's office door, is here because they want to be."

The otter gave a growl and made a fist with both his paws.

"I have a job to uphold. Even the more unsavory aspects. My points still stands, however; you are here because you choose to be. And we're all the better for it."

Laurence was just about ready to launch another accusation at the wildcat when a sturdy pair of arms encircled him from behind.

 _Who in the Fates..._ He turned to face the assailant. It was none other than his eccentric potential suitor, Wander. She was resting her chin on his right shoulder.

"Oh Laurence, how I have missed you! Are you happy to see?" said the barmaid with her biggest smile.

"I'm- I'm kind of in the middle of something important here."

She looked at Hale, who watched with a blank expression. And then to Laurence, a face of rigidity. "That's not important. Look at my new dress, Laurence! When you saw how much I liked my last dress I went and got another one. It got really warm outside, right?"

"Wander..."

"Ah. The Frostfang's sponsor. Interesting stories I've heard of this one." Hale paced his way to Wander and offered out a paw. "Your new dress complements your eyes splendidly, madam."

She shook it, whispering to Laurence excited exclamations of just who stood before them. The mercenary only twitched his whiskers in response.

"Oh, Copeland, before I forget: your fight with Kamba is today. Most exciting. If my doctor will allow, I will most certainly be in the audience. My only request is that you don't trounce our good friend Kahmabutcha too bad, hmm? He seems to be quite the fan favorite around here." His eyes flicked to Wander. "Rivaling perhaps even your growing entourage of fans."

 _No way. I'm going to trounce that golden savage._ "We'll see."

Before the wildcat could respond, a sudden fit of coughing seized him. He leaned hard against his cane, clutching at his chest with trembling claws.

"Alright, reunion's over. Administrator Seftis has put enough stress on his body for one day." A burly guard took Hale by the arm and escorted him back in the direction from whence he came.

Watching them leave, Laurence still couldn't believe that somebeast had poisoned the Administrator of the Crucible. Weren't there bigger fish to fry? His mind turned to the feast from ten days ago. Captain Whip of the bluejackets was there. If a prisoner had been the one to use the hemlock, why didn't they poison the leader of the slave drivers?

"Finally! I have you all to myself," Wander's voice whispered. She traced a claw around his ear before he pulled away from her. "Reunion's over."

This had gone on long enough. Laurence needed to say something. He cleared his throat and spoke in a calm, measured tone. "I'm sorry, Wander. But I am afraid that there's something... not pleasant I should tell you. I- I can't be with you. There are responsibilities and duties back in my homeland that are waiting for me. I can't get married out here. I am really sorry, Wander."

"Oh." She looked down at the snowy earth.

He placed a paw on her shoulder. "Are you going to be okay?"

She shrugged, "Well. Yeah. I am sad right now, but Ma always says that even though I might be sad right now, once enough time passes I will eventually be happy again."

"That... is pretty true, actually. Time heals all wounds." said Laurence. "We're always going to be friends, Wander, but I don't think we would be a good fit. I don't- I don't think I am ready to settle down yet."

She looked up and smiled. "Yes. Friends. The greatest of friends! Friends who tell each other everything, I always wanted those."

"Ah. The curtailed brother is gone." The otter's hackles raised at the taut voice. He almost jumped from the shock. _Leave it to Vikkars to put anybeast on edge._ "I hope there is no need to remind you that we work in clandestine."

"No worries. I said nothing about the impending-" A chill ran down his spine when he realized that Vikkars no longer had a ball chain around his right leg. "... nothing too damning. Where- where is your ball?"

"Gone." Vikkars' eyes flitted to the barmaid resting against the shoulder of Laurence. "Send your courtesan away. She doesn't need to be here for this next part."

Both otters turned to face each other. "Er, I guess this is goodbye for now, Wander. I'll come see you again soon. I promise." Laurence awkwardly accepted the hug she gave him before adding, "Oh. And like always- don't forget to bet on me for this next fight."

"Goodbye, Laurence! Please don't die. Yet."

Only after Wander was done saying her goodbyes to the both and was out of earshot, did Vikkars finally turn his dreaded gaze back onto the mercenary. "You are aware that she has a mental deficiency, right?"

Laurence only sighed. "Yeah. I figured as much."

"Come walk with me."

The two began to stroll away from the eyes of the gathering crowd in the courtyard, to the edge where a halfway-toppled garden archway preceded a row of frozen hedge bushes.

"Cain Seftis returned to the Crucible this morning. Several days ahead of schedule. The plans will have to be hastened. Your objective from last night, the task was completed?"

"Aye. The letter was delivered." Laurence nodded and gave what he hoped was an affirmative smile.

The scowl on the Prisoner King's face deepened. His eyes narrowed, brow brought downward. "You disobeyed my orders."

 _How in the... How does he know that?_ Laurence raised his paws and began stammering. "You don't know that."

"Your face told me everything I needed to know."

"Well... maybe I didn't follow them exactly down to the letter-"

"I gave you one job, and you botched it." He growled through gritted teeth, voice coiling tighter with every syllable. The chains on his paws rattled.

"Look. I'm really sorry about that, Vikkars. I am not going to do that next time-"

"There will be no next time." The ferret turned to leave the courtyard, with his tattered cloak billowing from the sudden heel turn.

For a moment Laurence considered chasing after Vikkars. What would be the point of that? The two of them were not friends. Were they?

A cold sweat begged to be tended to. _By the Fates. I think we are._

~.~.~.~

The mercenary was brought to the same armory from before. It looked exactly the same, as every other time. This was his fifth time to be standing in the room.

And not unlike the other occasions, Ansley was also there, leaning against the same open spot in the wall.

"And as always. If ye wanted, ye can spare your opponent by making a gesture to the presiding Lord of the Crucible. Jus' thought I'd let you know."

Laurence did not respond. He looked over the metallic, circular shield before him. Would a shield be a good choice? He was not accustomed to using one. Most of the time they only ended up adding more weight to carry. No, he would instead make do with using both paws for Sondern.

One major change from his previous fights was the thin layer of chainmail and the chest plate he chose to wear for the deathmatch. Ansley recommended it to him after witnessing Kahmabutcha's infamous agility firsthand. The mongoose was faster than Laurence, but not as hardy or steadfast. If the otter could get through Kamba's defenses, then it would be a quick fight.

The mercenary considered on standing in front of the door to signal that he was done choosing his arms, but he relented. Laurence took the circular shield from the dummy and slung it across his back. To beat the enemy's speed he would use a greater defense.

He was ready for the fight.

Like all the other times before, Laurence stood in front of the ancient wooden door. While he awaited for the presiding Crucible Overseer to call his name, his mind wandered. How long had this door existed? Did the original owners of the Crucible ever walk through it? Why did everybeast care so much about status in their society?

" _...And coming back to raise hell once again, it's the ex-soldier coming from Helmsford: The Frostfang!"_

The reverie was cut short when the doors suddenly jerked open.

The reverberating cadence of the crowd erupted into the usual mix of cheers and hisses at the sight of the Frostfang. Regardless of how the audience felt about him, Laurence could tell that all the stands were packed for the first time.

The sky was decorated in hues of pink and orange. There was no snow fall this time.

Dotted around the Crucible arena were wooden poles. At the top of each pole was a torch designed to illuminate the darkened fighting grounds.

Already standing in the center of the arena was the opponent, Kamba. Bundled in a light swaddling of clothes, his face and arms were decked in war paint. A pair of daggers twirling in both paws. This was not the first time Laurence sized up Kamba, but it was the first time he did so under such scrutiny.

Laurence closed the gap but stopped to maintain a safe distance. He raised his sword high in the air before bringing it back down into the earth.

"By the blood of my father and mother. By the blood of my brothers, blessed be the followers. Fates. Give me aptitude, give me insight."

He glanced over to where the interim Crucible Overseer, Deputy Wimmick, was sitting. The stolid rat noted that the Frostfang was finished with his infamous war prayer- and he waved a claw. The fight began.

Without warning the mongoose charged forward with impressive speed. The curved dagger almost made contact with Laurence's belly, but the otter was able to bring his shield down in time. The second dagger clanked with the shoulder armor.

Just as quickly as he advanced, the mongoose retreated. The pullback on Sondern took too long and the swing missed. Once he was a safe distance away, the two opponents circled around one another.

To throw the mongoose off his rhythm, Laurence began to approach closer. Kamba responded by taking a few more steps back. _Is this how they fight in the savanna? Running away like a coward and conceding territory?_

The process of Laurence advancing, and Kamba retreating continued until the mongoose was able to maneuver around one of the many poles around the outer edges of the arena. The Frostfang swiped at his enemy, but the torch pole blocked the blow.

Kamba danced in and out of the larger opponents range, taunting him in a foreign language. It didn't bother Laurence. All noise was drowned out- the gaunt form of Kamba was the only cynosure in his focus.

Another swing, another miss. The enemy in range once more while the sword's end was contacting with the ground. Laurence backpedaled and threw out the gauntlet on his left paw to absorb the blow. He forced Kamba back once again, arm throbbing from the reverberations.

Kamba staggered, but did not fall. Laurence had no time to react when dagger in Kamba's right paw careened towards him. It left a gruesome cut along the edges of his jaw.

Laurence ignored the discomfort at the hot feeling running off his face and threw out another slash with Sondern. Again he missed. The force of the blow snapped the torch pole between them in half. Kamba took his opportunity and darted left, away from the corner of the arena.

The Frostfang whirled around, anticipating an attack, but none came. He refocused his attention ahead and saw Kamba standing behind another torch pole.

"Come closer, nonbeliever!"

The mercenary obliged. Sondern in both paws, he charged forward. He realized too late to see the trap Kamba had set. Once Laurence was in range the mongoose slashed down the nearest torch pole and threw a handful of some powder on the ground where the fire torch landed.

Sparks and smoke flushed out and upwards, temporarily blinding Laurence. Knowing he only had moments to react before Kamba would cut him open, the otter tossed his shield in front of him. His quick thinking was rewarded with the sound of a gust of breath prematurely exiting, from practically inches in front of his face.

Once Laurence was able to remove the smoke from his irritated eyes, he could see the winded mongoose some distance away... weakly starting to get back on his footpaws.

This was his moment! He reeled back before lunging forward with everything he had.

Kamba rolled to the left while the sword slammed into the earth where he once laid. Pulling out a third dagger he stabbed Laurence in the ankle. The otter yelped and limped out of range before the mongoose could yank the weapon out.

As Laurence tried to create some distance, Kahmabutcha trailed after him. The situation he found himself to be in unintentionally beckoned the thought of Vikkars stalking Aveline- waiting for his moment to strike. He gave a painful, wheezing laugh at the bleak memory.

He let Sondern loose from his claws and purposely fell backwards to the earth.

Seeing his chance, Kamba rushed forward, armed with another dagger in his left paw.

Laurence hit the earth hard and felt the stitches across his stomach come loose and let fly a salvo of blood. His claws grasped the dying torch beside him and Laurence slashed upwards.

The falling mongoose howled in agony as the wood and fire connected with his claws. He dropped the knife and fell on top of the otter.

Laurence punched his enemy in the face while Kamba's claws raked the mercenary's neck. Two particular claws came carving down his throat and exposed a long secluded part of Laurence to the outside world. He couldn't muster up the strength to scream.

The two began kicking and scratching in an almost darkly comical fashion while they rolled over the torch- again burning the golden mongoose.

Taking his chance, the otter wrapped both claws around Kamba's throat. He pressed down with all the force he could. The enemy stared wide-eyed at the Frostfang, lips moving but nothing coming out.

For Laurence, every breath he took was in utter anguish. His vision filtered in and out now, the fusillade of frozen blood caking the right side of his face and blinding the right eye.

His mind was flickering with images. Wander's friend painting on the storage room walls- standing over his first kill in the great war- three wayward souls leaving their homeland- his father falling down that flight of stairs and lying prone on the floor- Laurence could feel his grip wavering, despite all of his willpower.

Kahmabutcha pried the trembling claws loose. Laurence fell over to the side hard, each proceeding breath harder to come by. _Why is everything so distant._

He watched for what felt like countless infinities as the conflagrant Kamba picked himself off the ground and walk countless miles toward the fallen otter.

A powerful force connected with Laurence's chest. The roars of the crowd were muted to a low, monotonous buzz in his ears.

 _Kill me… I failed... my family... please kill me._

The last thing he saw was the face of another living creature, upside down. They were contorting their face into a familiar expression while a series of words registered.

Another powerful blow, and everything faded into black.


	27. The Escape

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Escape**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

The iron keys jingled at his side with every hobbled step. Injury alone did not impede his stride—anticipation flooded him like the shivering intoxication of a common drunk. August retrieved the flask at his hip and took a long pull of its musky offering, and hailed the two beasts standing guard before a rock wall.

"Oy!" called out the shrew, Higgs, throwing up a paw in greeting. "Aren't you supposed to be on guard duty wit' the rest of 'em?"

"Took a break to see what you louts were up to, hmm," August replied with a smile. "Them beasts behavin'?"

"Well as they can. Don't much like bein' locked up early."

Across from Higgs, Sagtail grunted. The rat's grim expression prompted Higgs' smile to wilt, and the shrew stood a little taller.

August mentally cursed whoever put a capable beast on the duty roster for the Drag. Whispers already bounded about that, given a few seasons and the right showing, Sagtail could very well replace Wimmick as Captain Whip's right-paw beast.

"Can't blame 'em." August furrowed his brow in thought, circling away from Higgs and nearing Sagtail. As he walked, he rapped his claws against the metal of his flask. "Not with that fool weasel making a dash for it, hmm."

Higgs smacked his lips. "Say, chief, you don't mind sharin' a lick, do you?"

August tossed Higgs the flask. "I won't tell the missus that you've been sneakin' pecks."

"You're a saint, August," Higgs crooned before wrenching the cap off and tipping the drink back.

In that moment, August moved. He spun on his heel. Snow splashed upwards as his blade shrieked free of its sheath. Sagtail only flinched before the steel slashed through the muscle and membrane of his neck. The rat struck the ground with gurgled alarm, and Higgs choked on the liquid coursing through his throat.

August leapt at the shrew and drove the point of his blade through the beast's gut. Higgs sputtered a hundred questions in no real words, then fell to the snow without answer.

"Sorry, mate," August sighed, withdrawing a rag and wiping the blood from his blade as he passed through the rock crevice.

The Drag lay dark and formless, the torches extinguished early to coax the slaves to an earlier sleep. Practice guided his steps as he approached the first of the necessary cells. All around him, frantic whispers already grew, provoked further when the jingle of his keys echoed through the cave.

As the first door swung open, he whistled sharply. "Molly. Let's go."

From within the dark cell, he saw her rise from her cot. Her eyes caught against the little light that filtered in from the outside, and in them he saw her determination laid bare, no longer shrouded under the many faces she had to put on.

"Gather the rest," she said simply, striding out from her cage and rushing to the entrance.

August set to work at once. As the gate grinded open of the next cell, the whispers rose to open question. By the third cell, the Drag roared with pleas for mercy and demands for absolution. August ignored them all.

The fourth cell lay in the far corner of the Drag, where the voices rang loudest. August set his jaw and focused on the memorized motions of unlocking the gate. The grind of its opening drowned under the cries surrounding them, and the beast within did not stir.

"Bechtel!" August shouted over the din, reaching into the dark. "Get up!"

The bat jumped at his touch. "Right, right… Sorry, I'm ready."

"You better be. Molly's waiting at the entrance."

The bat tottered over to the cage's opening, then stopped, casting a look back into the cell. August growled and shoved the bat forward.

"Go!"

Cell thirty-seven and forty-nine were all that remained. By the time he freed those within, he felt as though his insides might burst from the strain of hearing the broken pleading of the beasts left behind.

The freed slaves gathered outside of the Drag, huddled together against the bitter cold. Several of them cast fearful looks at the bodies of the guards, while others sneered. He noticed Bechtel spit upon both of them.

"That's all of them," August said with a nod to Molly.

"Are… are we just going to leave the others?" asked a thin-boned mousemaid.

"Let 'em rot," an otter grumbled. "Never did anything for us, did they?"

"This isn't right…" a ferret said, clutching his arms tightly about his bruised frame. "Isn't there some way—"

"We can't take them all." Molly's voice rang harsh over the group, silencing any further thoughts from being voiced. "We're already risking it with as large a group as we have. Be glad you at least will be free of this place, returned to your families."

August surveyed the mere eleven beasts before him. He paused on the sight of Bechtel. An objection of his own primed in his throat, but he swallowed it. He'd agreed to this plan—said that he understood there could be no other way.

"Right then," August said, "let's get our paws moving. Time is ticking fast, hmm."

The group left the Drag's fissure behind, and the pounding of the voices in his skull faded. By the time they reached the Crucible's walls, the voices were nothing more than edges upon the wind. Molly led them quickly to the Crucible's gates, where the bodies of three guards lay limp across the ground.

"Did they give you trouble?" she asked.

"Got a lucky swipe on my arm," August said, pulling back his sleeve to show a seeping line of red on his arm. "It's not bad."

She nodded sharply. "There are bandages at the safe house."

August chuckled as he flicked through his ring of keys. "Not the worst scrape I've suffered, marm."

"Safe house?" Bechtel asked from behind them. "Where are—"

"Don't worry about it, Bechtel," Molly said. "I need you focused on what's beyond these doors."

The bat didn't reply. August selected a large, black-wrought key and stuck it into the gate's massive padlock. Grunting, he twisted the key. With a loud _clack,_ one side of the gate shifted open, striking the faces of each beast with a sudden gust of warm wind.

Determination and fear covered the features of the gathered slaves as the great door groaned open. August placed a finger to his lips, then gestured them in behind him.

Only the patter of their feet against the Crucible's stone ushered them into the fortress' halls. August led the beast down a poorly-lit side hall, then through a draped tarpaulin covering the entrance to a work site. Piles of wood and stone lay by barrels of mortar, and in the far corner, Orban and his fox apprentice waited.

The elderly mouse stood up from his vigil upon seeing August, his clouded eyes flicking to the beasts flooding in from behind him. Upon spotting the frail mousemaid, his tired features swept away, like a sudden breath of life flowed through him.

"K-Katalina?" he ventured.

"Papa?" the mousemaid croaked.

Orban rushed forward and enveloped her in a tight hug. She squeaked a cry of joy, paws tearing into his leather jerkin. Somber smiles fell upon the faces of all those gathered, some tearing up at the sight.

 _You'll all be home soon,_ August thought, more to remind himself than to share in the joy before him.

A distant roar broke the moment. The slaves shrunk back as August felt the stones beneath him shudder. Even this deep in the Crucible, the crowd's riotous cheers reached them.

"We should move," August whispered to Molly. "Copeland and Kamba are both strong fighters, but their battle won't last forever."

She nodded, then stepped forward. "Orban, is everything prepared?"

The elder mouse pried himself away from his daughter and drew in an uneven breath. "Y-Yes. There's just the matter of—"

She silenced him with a raise of her claw, then turned to grip Bechtel's shoulder.

"This is where we need you, Bechtel. You know where the Hall of Greats is, yes?"

His brow furrowed. "I've never been inside, but I've worked near—"

"That'll be fine. You just need to know the way. You'll find a stairway there that leads to an unfinished ballroom, guarded by a few beasts. I need you to distract those beasts, lead them into the ballroom, then enter the door on the far wall."

August watched the bat carefully as he processed the information.

"Why aren't we all going together?"

"It's too dangerous with a group this large. If those guards see how many of us there are, they'll run and warn Cain."

"But… why me, then? Shouldn't August go, or one of the others?"

Molly pulled Bechtel to the corner of the room, just out of earshot of the other slaves. August pocketed his paws, but kept an ear twisted towards the pair.

"Look at them, Bechtel. They're all afraid, and I don't trust them the way I trust you."

"But—"

"Can you do this for me?"

"Of course." Bechtel straightened up. "I'll do it."

Suddenly, Molly pulled the bat close, locking lips with him for a drawn out second. August raised a brow as the gathered slaves chittered at the display. Upon parting, Bechtel stumbled back, stuttering and stammering with a slack-jaw.

Molly patted him on the chest. "Thank you, Bechtel."

She retreated from the corner, while a smile slowly spread across the bat's face. Sighing, August stepped forward.

"Hey," he whispered, careful not to let Molly hear, "if anything goes wrong… you fight back, all right? Don't wait for us."

Bechtel chewed at his lip and nodded distantly. Growling, August reached out and seized the bat's wing. "Listen to me! You fight back, all right? Don't let them take you without a fight."

The haze seemed to lift from the bat, creasing his brow with questions.

"August? What's wrong?" Molly asked from behind.

"Nothin'," August said, guiding Bechtel to the tarpaulin. He made sure the bat knew the way to the Hall of Greats, then pulled the canvas back. He watched the bat slink away, the torches catching his leathery wings as he rushed down the hallways.

August winced as he felt a touch on his shoulder.

"What did you tell him?"

August looked back at her stony face. "Wished him luck. Fate knows he needs it."

Molly sighed. "Don't look at me like that, August."

"Don't know what you mean, marm." Shrugging her claw off, he moved back to the center of the room and clapped his paws together. "All right, that's our cue. Orban, it's your show from here."

The elder mouse nodded, producing a map from the inside of his jerkin. "Yes, yes. First, to the prison vault…"

~.~.~.~

"It don't look right."

"Uh huh."

"And it itches whens I scratch it."

"That tends t' happen."

"…smells like infection."

"Gurney, shaddup."

"Naw, I mean it! Here, smell it yerself!"

Jinkpul gagged, shoving the proffered foot away from his face. "Th' barmy blazes?! Get yer foot outta me face!"

"Ye smelled it, though, didn't ye? Infection!"

Jinkpul spat. "Smells like th' rest o' yer flea-bitten hide!"

"Pah!" Gurney twisted away, scratching at his foot. "What d' ye know 'bout medicine? Bet Truson'll say it's infected."

"Hope he cuts th' whole leg off…" Jinkpul muttered, leaning against his spear and turning his gaze back to the empty, flickering halls of torchlight before him.

He sighed as the halls filled with the muffled cheers of the crowd. It sounded like a good fight, one not to be missed, and yet some poor sap had to be saddled with guarding the Hall of Greats. Luck saw fit that sap was him.

He had thirty coppers running on the crazed mongoose whipping that upstart otter's tail. Most of the guards thought the otter's opposition to the Crucible's ways was an act, but something about the way the foreign waterdog carried himself just soured Jinkpul to the beast—act or not.

Something dark flashed between the torches. Jinkpul stood up from his makeshift chair, readying the spear in his paws.

"Ye heard what th' Cap'n said," Gurney tittered behind him. "No sneakin' out fer peeks or it's—"

"Shut yer trap," Jinkpul hissed, slapping the wooden end of the spear against Gurney's snout. "I saw somethin'."

Nursing his nose, Gurney readied his own weapon beside Jinkpul. The torches beyond continued to flutter, casting dancing shadows upon the edges of the light.

"…don't see nuffin'."

Jinkpul snorted, turning back around. "Guess not. You still got those tarts you swiped?"

 _Tick._

Jinkpul looked to the side to see a pebble strike the floor, spin a few inches towards his paw, then slow. He regarded it for a moment, then looked up. Something dark – deeper than shadow – clung to the wall, and then he met its eyes.

A flurry of movement sent Jinkpul reeling back. Black wings spread out, sending the intruder overtop the heads of both guards. Crashing to the floor, the creature skittered to its feet and darted down the hallway.

"Blimey! What's a bird doin' here?"

Jinkpul tightened his grip on his spear. Around the neck of the creature, he'd seen something glint in the torchlight. "That ain't no bird—it's a slave!"

The pair charged after the beast, who disappeared down a stairway. Jinkpul stopped his partner with a paw. "Ain't no way outta there. Go fetch Cap'n Whip."

"But—"

Jinkpul shoved Gurney back hard enough to send him nearly to the ground. "Shaddup an' go!"

Gurney scurried off while Jinkpul freed a torch from its moorings and set down the stairway. He primed the spear in his paw and kept his eyes trained upwards, unwilling to be taken by surprise again.

He heard scuffling as he neared the bottom of the stairs, and as soon as the torchlight reached into the unfinished ballroom, he paused. The creature –a bat, he recognized –scurried about the far side of the room, panting heavily.

"Where is it, where is it?" the bat gasped, shoving planks of wood aside and running his claws against the walls.

Jinkpul jammed the torch into a nearby sconce. The bat whirled at the crack of metal, then rushed to another wall as Jinkpul weaved his way through the scattered detritus.

"Molly! August! Help me!"

 _August? Th' blazes does that hedgepig have to do with this?_

The bat tried to leap to the other wall, but a swing of Jinkpul's spear sent him back into the corner of the ballroom. The creature's breaths came out frantic, his eyes wild. Jinkpul steadied himself.

A primal growl rattled throughout the ballroom, then the bat launched himself forward. Jinkpul ducked the initial tackle, but felt something sharp rake across his back. Snarling, he whipped around and stabbed with his spear. The blade connected, he felt resistance, then something like fabric being ripped in two. A splitting scream broke out across the room, as the bat struck the ground and writhed in torment. One wing lay clutched at his side, its membrane hanging like torn ribbon as blood streamed out.

Shifting his grip, Jinkpul swung his spear and cracked the blunt end against the bat's head. The bat stilled, limp in the steadily-growing pool of blood.

Calming his breath, Jinkpul knelt by the beast. "How'd you get in here…?"

~.~.~.~

The lock snapped free and the padlock struck the dusted stone with a dull thud. Two of the stronger slaves bent down, hefting the large gate up. As soon as it was high enough, another propped a brace underneath.

Molly ducked underneath the gate and folded her wings behind her. "Bear?"

Her voice issued cold in the winter-frosted cell, returning to inform her of the cramped quarters, the rotted furnishings, the fungi-infested bed, the ice-covered grate for airflow—a cell for Cain's monsters. In the middle sat a hulking mass of fur and muscle, face turned toward the darkest corner of the cell. The beast made no motion to recognize Molly's entrance.

"Get up," Molly said, approaching Bear. "It's time. We're leaving."

The badger's fur rippled, and he shuffled to crane his head to the side. "To go… home?" his voice issued more as a prolonged rumble, than actual speech. It took a moment for Molly to remember how to decipher the speech.

She smiled. "Of course. We're going home."

Bear considered this for a long moment. "…and you? You'll… stay?"

Molly ran a tender claw through his wiry fur. "I promised that, didn't I? You and me, we'll leave here together, and find a nice place where no bad beasts ever come."

His massive head slowly bobbed up and down. "I'd like that… sounds nice."

"Come on, then. We need to hurry, or Master Cain will hurt us all."

A growl rose from the badger, so deep and resonant that it sent his rumble of a voice to shivers. "No." He shifted from his position. The entire cell shook when he slammed his foot down. "Won't let Master Cain hurt you."

"I know," Molly cooed. "I can always trust you, Bear."

He reached out a paw as large as her body, cradling it against her. "Love you, Molly."

She smiled. "I love you too, Bear. You know that."

She ducked back under the gate. Bear didn't attempt to stoop below the bars—he merely reached down and shoved the gate up hard enough to jam it into the darkened slot above. Several of the slaves cowered as he exited his cell, whisperings their concerns to one another. Molly ignored them—they didn't understand Bear's use, just as they didn't understand their own. Katalina's tie to Orban, Thistlepaw's lover, the otter who would barter her passage far from Marshank—each had a purpose.

Her ear flicked as she heard the hobbled approach of August from the cavern's exit.

"The guards are shufflin' out to the slave grounds," he said, voice reedy from exertion. "Coast is clear for now." He spared a glance at the towering badger. "Hey, Bear."

Bear waved a humongous paw. "Hi, Gusty."

"Thistlepaw should be at the safe house," August said. "Everything else is in order."

"Then let's not dawdle. We have what we need." Molly strode past them. "Let's make use of Bechtel's sacrifice while we can."

~.~.~.~

"Get in there and give me a head-count! I want every slave accounted for!" Whip cracked his namesake by his side, sending the surrounding guards scrambling into the dark of the Drag.

Whip's scowl deepened. The beasts ran to and fro like wayward children seeking their parents in a hurricane. This was not the able-minded vanguard Whip had trained. They'd grown feckless under the soothing words of a wildcat, with the constitution of a loose-boweled sickbeast.

Whip looked at the stiff corpses strewn by the Drag's entrance. He spat, cursing the thrice-plagued Hale. He recalled the cat twisting the Lord of Marshank's ear, assuring that an uprising was absurd, and that Whip's guards should instead focus on serving the Crucible's rising number of visitors.

The only thought that stilled Whip's rage was the knowledge that Cain would finally see the flaws in his brother's plans. If a small rebellion is what it took to humble Hale, Whip would abide it.

"Captain, what is going on in my Crucible?"

Whip whirled around at the voice, the scowl melting from his face mid-turn. Golden fur shimmered against the surrounding torchlight as Cain prowled forward, a savage expression twisting his features. Two guards on either side flanked Marshank's sovereign, their focus sharp for any beasts hiding in the dark.

"L-Lord Cain!" Whip threw up a sharp salute. "I had no idea you were in the Crucible."

Cain folded his arms. "I'd been told the fight tonight was one I should not miss. I did not, however, expect insurrection to sully my evening. Under _your_ watch, no less." Whip resisted the urge to flinch, grateful that Cain's harsh gaze flicked away to the Drag. "What is the situation?"

"We caught a slave attempting to escape through the Crucible. He's been detained, but we suspect he had help from one of the guards—a hedgehog named August."

"Has he been captured?"

"…no, my lord, but I have my beasts scouring the Crucible now. They'll find him, and any other traitors." He nodded to the Drag. "I'm performing a tally now to see if any of the other slaves escaped."

Wisps of air streamed from the wildcat's nostrils, followed by a low growl. "How exactly did this happen, Captain?"

Whip drew in a steadying breath. "The turnout tonight demanded the guards' attention be shifted to keeping the peace within the Crucible. With the thinned guard, it presented an opportunity that they must have planned for." At Cain's smoldering silence, Whip continued, "I… I take full responsibility for the failure, my lord. There is no excuse."

Cain locked gazes with Whip. "Careful with your words. You may find I agree."

A litany of justified excuses warred within Whip. Whip voiced none of them. Besides the Crucible, Cain cared for very little. Hale was one of the lucky few on that list—a fact that confounded Whip at every term. Perhaps it was Hale's use in filling the stands, perhaps it was something as banal as blood, but Cain would not react well to accusations against his sole-surviving sibling. Not yet, at least. This event had to settle before Whip approached that matter.

"My lord!"

Whip and Cain both turned at the voice, spotting a stoat running towards them. Cain's guards leveled their weapons, stopping the stoat from nearing their master.

"Stand down—he's with us," Whip said, gesturing to the guards. With a measure of frustration, he noted how they did not react to his order. "What is it, Ansley? You were supposed to be assisting with the search."

The stoat's voice came out unintelligible, thick with mucus. He raised a paw as he inhaled several long drafts of air. With a prickle of fear tracing down his back, Whip realized the stoat must have run straight from the Crucible without stopping. Only something urgent would have prompted that.

"Have you found something?" he ventured.

Ansley shook his head. "Nay, Cap'n," he gasped, drawing in one final breath before standing upright. "It's Administrator Hale. He came seekin' Lord Cain."

Whip stiffened, and Cain stepped forward.

"What did he say?" Cain asked.

"His ailment stopped 'im from comin' 'imself, so 'e told me t' give you this, m'lord."

Ansley produced a parchment, which Cain swept from his paw in a blur. Whip kept a respectful distance, but couldn't help but peer at the hastily-scrawled writing. He cursed the lack of light, the sinking feeling that yet more of Hale's trickery lay penned upon the paper.

Suddenly, Cain's grip tightened around the paper.

"My lord?" Whip asked.

"Gather thirty of your best beasts, Captain," Cain said. "It seems you have been looking in the wrong place. My brother has found your escapees."

Confusion flashed across Whip's face. The sick, bedridden wildcat? How in the sinking marshes could that git have—

"He also says much of you, Captain Whip. Things you have failed to tell me."

Whip felt a chill. Never once in all of his time had his title of "Captain" been spoken with such derision. To hear it from his lord sent his footpaws shivering. "I don't know what—"

Cain pressed the letter against Whip's chest. "We will speak of your clandestine dealings in Marshank – your secret press gangs – later." His grip tightened until his claws pierced paper and fabric, straight into Whip's chest. "Find me those escaped slaves, and your punishment may yet be merciful."

~.~.~.~

None uttered a sound as they wandered into winter's wrath sweeping over Marshank's streets. They steered clear of the towlines and swung a wide arc around the outskirts of the city. Only Molly spoke, the irregular click of her tongue leading them through the blinding fury.

Eventually, Molly signaled for them to turn inwards to the city, making their way through the darkened alleys of Marshank's streets. Only when they stopped before a nondescript hatchway did one of the slaves risk a sigh.

Throwing the door open and exposing the light of the safe house within, August stayed at the rear to usher each of the beasts inside. Once he was alone, he shot a glance both ways before ducking into the hatchway and slamming the metal door behind him.

The snow shivered from his fur as he descended the little stairway. Safe "house" was not an entirely correct term, as it was nothing more than a cellar lying underneath an estate home. Even so, the room was larger than a poor beast's home, blanketed in mossy carpet, and filled with finely-upholstered chairs—a vivid reminder of the affluence of Marshank's aristocracy. Once again, August found himself wondering just who their enigmatic benefactor was for this to be the arranged waypoint.

The slaves gathered around the glowing stove, and for the first time, August saw them smile at one another. Even Bear laughed, poking at the stove like a too-curious dibbun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thistlepaw rise from a cushioned chair.

"You made it. I was beginning to worry."

"We had to move slowly," August said, scrubbing at the snow on his scalp.

"We won't be able to stay long. They'll find out we've escaped shortly." Molly surveyed the room. "Is everything here, as promised?"

Thistlepaw nodded. "Clothing in the chest, and packs of food for the journey."

August's whiskers twitched. "Wish I could thank him in person, hmm."

Thistlepaw shrugged. "Perhaps this way, he'll be able to help others."

"What matters is that we are not found." Molly approached the indicated supplies, pulling a tied bundle of cloth free. "Get the others ready. We make the dock before sunrise."

August frowned. "Molly, let them have a moment's rest, and time for a meal. They've had a rough night, and they're finally somewhere safe."

She shot him a savage look. "Nowhere in this city is _safe,_ August!"

The laughter from the group died, and multiple sets of eyes turned to look at them. Molly huffed and tossed the bundle to Bear.

"Get dressed. All of you. Be sure to hide your collars—we can't risk being spotted once we're in the city."

Molly turned back to the chest. August stepped forward and caught her wing.

"I agreed to help you for their sake, Molly, not yours," he whispered. Her gray, cloudy eyes had always been disconcerting to see on a beast, but he held her gaze firm. "You are not the leader here."

"Are you?" Molly drew herself to her full height—a full head taller than August. "Are you seriously challenging my authority here, now?"

August snarled. "I don't like what you did with Bechtel, but I understood it. We needed a distraction for the plan to work, and for the sake of these beasts, I went with it." He pointed at the slaves. "But these beasts don't serve you. They're free now. You remember that."

Those gray eyes narrowed. "They're not free until we leave this city. Until then, they _will_ listen to me, because _I'm_ the one that is freeing them." She shoved a bundle into his chest. "Remember _that,_ hedgehog."

August gripped the clothing, muttering under his breath as he stomped away.

"Is everything all right?" Orban asked, one paw still clutching Katalina. He hadn't let go of her since their reunion.

"Molly's right," August sighed. "We can't stay here long. Gather everyone and have them prepare for the journey to the do—"

Voices. August stopped midstride. Every beast in the room froze at once. Every eye trained towards the hatchway.

Muffled footsteps, pattering above. Too many to be passing villagers, too heavy to be local gangs.

Katalina whimpered, shrinking further into Orban's fur. August held a paw out, locking eyes with Orban.

 _How?_ the mouse's expression asked.

 _Steady,_ August returned. _Not a sound._

Orders barked from higher beasts to lesser ones. The snap of air, like a small thunderclap cracking through the alley. A tingle coursed through August's neck. He reached for his blade.

A squeal of metal and a roar of voices. The hatchway flung open, and a stream of blue flooded down the stairs. The slaves screamed, scrambling to the back corner of the room, but there was no route, no escape.

August counted the beasts—five, ten, twenty. He balked at the number—this was no routine search. They knew where they were. Somehow, they had known exactly where they would be.

A roar crackled over the room, stopping even the bluejackets from advancing further. Bear stepped forward, breathing heavy. August looked at him to find Molly as his side, whispering.

"They're here to hurt me, Bear. They'll kill me."

Bear's head twitched, and August saw mottled red flicker over the enraged eyes. Panic shot through him. "Molly, stop!" He dropped his sword to the ground and held up his paws. "Stop him right now!"

"Don't you care about me? You don't want them to kill me, do you?"

Foam bubbled at the corner of Bear's split mouth.

"We've lost!" August shouted. "Fighting will only get us killed!"

Molly gripped at Bear's arm, and August saw blood by her claws—the skin pierced. Bear roared once more—animal and unintelligible. The guards at the top of the stared pulled back their bows.

"You'll kill him!" August pleaded.

"They'll take you back there!" Molly snarled. "Kill them! Kill them now!"

Bear launched himself at the guards, one massive paw lashing out. One went crashing into the side wall, while the other screamed in Bear's grip. The badger slammed the head of the beast up into the ceiling, sending a sickening crunch through the room, along with a spray of sticky blood. Then the arrows launched, and the swords fell.

Bear howled, staggering backwards and dropping the limp body from his grasp. He grasped at one of his eyes, then barreled forward. The few unlucky guards to not dodge splattered against the wall, squeals rising to meet the crack of bone.

August felt motion at his side, and saw five of the slaves rush forward to join the fight.

"Stop!" he cried.

None heeded his call. Two fell to the sword immediately, while two more grappled with scattered guards. The fifth retrieved a fallen blade, only for an arrow to find her neck, sending her to the ground with a gurgle.

Still blinded by the arrow, Bear swung wildly, catching several more guards, as well as one of the slaves. Some recovered, others lay still.

August saw the archers ready for another volley. He leapt back to avoid any missed shots, slapping his paws overtop his head.

He heard a horrible, prolonged scream suddenly turn reedy, like air rushing through a metal straw. A great quake resonated through the room, and for a moment, all was still.

Then he heard the orders, the shouts, the slam of feet entering the room. He felt paws jerk him up, and then saw the bodies. The twisted forms laid to waste by the badger's fury, the screaming guards clutching broken limbs, the slaves stilled by steel. August felt his breath hitch when he saw the crumpled form of Katalina—Orban's daughter.

As his paws were secured behind him, he looked to the others. Orban sobbed, limp against the pull of the guards. His apprentice stood stricken beside him. The slaves cowered in the back. And Molly.

Molly stood tall, despite the guards securing her wings behind her. No stalwart expression rested upon her face, though. She stared at Bear, regarding the motionless bulk. August saw no remorse, no guilt, no sadness. Only disappointment.

 _Fates forgive me,_ he thought. _I've made a horrible mistake._

 **[End of Round Four]**


	28. Layering

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Layering**

 _By: Cuprica Rendai_

* * *

Languid Wander drowned in a seven-tier dress the colors of spring growth, sharp against her ruddy fur and Arbington's worn booths. The silk and plume, combined with the dip of the neckline, spoke of wealth invested and a tailor of no mean skill transforming the barmaiden into a Beast of Respect.

Cuprica clawed free a trouser wedgie before sliding into the booth's opposite side.

"Do you like working in the Crucible?" said Wander. "It must be so exciting."

A pair of rats in blue jackets took their 'posts' at the bar, each bragging about conquests pending and realized in no hushed tones. Cuprica looked at her twinned escort with purpose, but the otter across the table missed the signal, and kept her head tilted in earnest question.

"No, it's…" Cuprica closed her eyes, saw the brown and stone of her forced service, but not a single word which fit the feeling. "It's a lot like eating too much even though you shouldn't. Your belly rolls, and there's yet more bread in your muzzle and paw."

"It's an arena, silly. Not a mess hall."

"There's a hall in there, you know. Long and stocked, but nowhere near Em's fare." Cuprica's stomach rumbled, and she hummed with indecision between talking more and raiding Emery's larder while the elder ferret tended the bar. It only then occurred to the vixen that she never saw Arbington's prize chef serving on the floor during her tenure, yet he wriggled about and refilled bluejacket flagons with a tired ease. Muted waters, dried mud, and flecks of oil black roots bursting from the soil - all which cloyed the otherwise radiant ferret's pores. "I painted feathers and wings on the ceiling so beasts who can't fly might. At least for a little as they dine."

"I should like to fly." Wander stretched her arms out, which already draped winglike with sashes embroidered with shining stones. "Up and over the marshlands, to nap between a bed of ferns and a blanket of clouds."

"Would you take me with you? Perhaps coin would free me of-"

"Up, up, and into the sky…"

For effect, the otter pressed two paws along one side of her face, and breathed deep as though sleeping. Cuprica smiled at first, and then tilted her head in time as Wander's pantomime turned into her snoozing at the table.

The vixen closed her eyes, and saw the time where they'd hold one another in Arbington's expansive store room, tucked aside crates of desert salt and hidden behind curtains of drying lavender. Humming snippets of lost songs in duet, and sharing warmth, once staved off the terrors of tavern service.

Now, the uneven trill of the now-wealthy barmaiden sent bolts of black and brick in the air between them, strong and laden strokes which let the paint tunnel and smear in the illusion of texture. Cuprica could no longer see Wander through the lines of paint, and though she reached from within she could not part the veil. The colors emanated from the otter maid and filled the air, though she smiled in her impromptu napping.

Their shared, fruited tea grew cold as Cuprica watched Wander sleep.

"Piss poor, guv." A rattess bluejacket at the bar broke the empty tavern's silence by tossing her tankard at Emery's feet. "More water in 'ere than Badrang's grave."

"I assure you, _miss,_ that I'm not in the habit of cutting my stock." For all his height, and twitching ears, the ferret chef kept his voice low and cool. "Perhaps somebeast of _your_ bent may not realize, but this is the finest ale this side of the island. You'll not find better if you tried."

"C'mon, Cabbie." The rattess elbowed her partner and made for the kitchen entrance with him. "Jumpy little babe wants us to _try_ and find our own."

Indeed, Emery sputtered a few dozen times as the twin bluejackets shouldered into the kitchen, even reaching for the paring knife tucked into his apron pocket. This, like his long sigh and mock bow of 'service,' was all a show, and with the bluejackets gone - and raiding his larder - he could only hop over the bar and approach his remaining customers.

Emery didn't even bother with a greeting, but slid beside Cuprica and pulled her head into a crushing hug. The vixen remained limp, her muzzle smushed against his aproned chest, knowing any sort of resistance against a waning Emery meant deeper compression.

"Dearie, I love seeing you, but never again," said Emery. "I can't take another one of these Crucible thugs scuffing my floorboards. Oh no. No no no no! If they touch my 30-year Obleyz, then so help me Vulpuz…"

"Mrrffrrf," said Cuprica.

" _Exactly._ And their mothers too."

"Mrrfflflflrr!"

"Oops!"

Cuprica gasped for air as Emery released his titanic, theatrical embrace. A few more gasps saw the painter breathing easy, the chef less red beneath the fur, the new-money lass still snoozing. Up close, the earth and roots were not so thick about Emery's body, as though a hug alone broke the thicket and let the ferret's chartreuse and vermillion shine free. Brambles remained, but Cuprica smelled the salt of his ambition, the curl and lash of his spice and wit.

"I'm sorry, Em," said Cuprica. "They've doubled my guard since, well…"

"Since what? Since they realized what a little treasure you are." He went for a customary ruffle of her bandana and ears, but the energy was wrong, and turned more into an awkward pat than a token of affection. "I hear whispers here, you know. A lot of beasts can't believe how you've transformed the Crucible."

"Neither can I..."

"Would you like to come back? Breathe a few new layers of wonderful on these walls? I'll pay you in fish, though I don't think the entire city has enough for your needs."

"I can't. You know that."

"I know. I…" She'd never seen the ferret so serious, so lost for words. But something clicked. A slight sniff which made Emery squirm in his seat and take a sip from Cuprica's teacup. "...what happened, Cuppy?"

"N-nothing happened. Say, is there any fish in-"

"Don't you give me the fish defense." Emery gripped her cheeks with one claw, and turned her muzzle until their nose tips touched. "You can tell me anything, sweetie. You know that, right?"

"Mrrfffleffrr…"

"Good. Now let Papa Emery know."

And she did - perhaps for the lack of guards, perhaps for the lack of oxygen in her brain. What started as a cautious retelling of her daily routine within the Crucible turned word by word into a rolling thunder of continuous admission. The scent of iron filling every hallway of the Crucible, beasts who cried harder when looking at her work than they did in torture, the walls of room twenty-three filled to capacity with her paintings but somehow the walls still closed in further and further by the day. Her husband at the shadows. The slaves in their piles, enclosed in iron rings of forced service. The dead upon their carts. The clash of weapons and the cries for mercy from those who tried to escape.

The Last Gasp.

"Excuse me?" Only then did Emery interrupt, when Cuprica recanted the pawful of vials she'd stolen from Hale's desk. "You found what now?"

"Last Gasp. A…" The word 'poison' primed, but she realized the sounds from the kitchen had stopped, and Wander had woken from her nap to look with wide eyes over her folded arms. "A bad medicine. I took them all. I don't know why, I don't know what to do, but I took them and hid them and. And I."

"Honey, no." Emery placed a paw on her arm, which trembled slightly in his grip. "No no no. You have to find a way to put them back. You can't-"

The kitchen door kicked open by the bluejacket's heavy boot. The rattess carried a small cask of wine under her arm - with Obleyz burned into the cask's side - while Cabbie's entire head vanished behind the piles of cakes and sausages he cradled. Emery shot from the booth and shouted all manner of phrase in a language neither the guards, nor Cuprica, understood. At the twitch of the rattess' sword paw, and the screech of the ferret's tone, the vixen rose and swung between them.

"I should like to go back," said Cuprica. "I'm tired."

"And I'm tired o' dis fop and 'is nonsense," said Cabbie from behind his meat mountain.

"Please. Lord Hale is expecting me soon."

Not a complete lie, for the vixen had an appointment for painting his office, but the shake of her voice kept both guards between beating the irate ferret into obedience or heeding Cuprica's caution. Cabbie huffed, and his partner readjusted her grip on the cask before issuing command.

"Then let's go, painter. I've had enough of this stinkhole anyways."

Emery muttered a few more choice, foreign phrases, but a single over-the-shoulder look from Cuprica quelled any continuation. He mouthed an apology, and a pointed 'Put. Them. Back.' slow and careful, to which Cuprica could only nod and turn for the door with her escort.

Marshank Settlement thrived at midday.

Feckless picaroons hounded passing nobles for coin, for sport, and broke up the ebb and flow of beasts leaving for the central plaza. News barkers told tales of fallen combatants, and chants of Marshank pride very few joined. Habit drew Cuprica closer to her escort's side, past the frozen central fountain where revelers and vagrants cat called any and all who passed. She clipped into cocksure locals who paraded about the plaza, tripped over the uneven cobbles until Cabbie smacked her for dawdling, and the sky. The sky turned brick red with the churn of clouds and climbing chimney smoke, where the faces of rage and dishonor stretched against the paint, monstrous and sure, hungry for the small beasts below who dare not look up.

Cuprica saw the hanging judgment, drawing closer to the ground with each breath. She saw Lord Hale silent and sure, the fitch Solomon tilting his muzzle in question, Cain at his feasting, the bat slave in his mourning, Wander in her distance, and Sorel...but not in the sky.

Sorel Rendai stood outside the Crucible's front gate.

He did not notice Cuprica at first, or her escort, for a large convoy of carved stone tailed from the gate and out along the path. With the precision of his experience and temper, the tod stepped from stone cart to stone cart - all pulled by string-thin slaves, two per cart - and took inventory of his delivery. Even at a standstill, the slaves heaved with the effort of keeping the laden carts from rolling back down the hill and crashing into Marshank's more populous areas.

The strength remained in his shoulders, the posture and curve of his tail resolute, yet even from yards away Cuprica could smell a difference. Something rank and sharp which undercut the heady, earthen musk normally about the confident male.

She smelled the same acid upon herself.

Sorel turned with his muzzle in the air, his flaring nostrils swinging in her direction before his gaze. Not a smear of paint spun from his tortured limbs to obscure his face. The vixen saw her husband clear.

Slaves, unsure of their direction, tittered to one another as the monstrous stones they hauled jostled in their keeping. The clacking stones unfroze Sorel, and he strode over to the still-frozen Cuprica with purpose.

"You two, take the train inside." Sorel gave the rat escort the command with such certainty that Cuprica almost followed the direction when nobeast else did, so Sorel reiterated. "They're meant for the eastern wall. My workers there will know their use."

"We ain't yer slaves, fox," said Cabbie. "Sides, _somebeast_ hasta look over yer wifey…"

Cuprica clutched her shift and apron close as Cabbie gave her an obvious and thorough leer to illustrate his point. Sorel's cheek twitched. She'd seen this once before...

"Then leave Mrs. Rendai with me." But he did not strike, did not yell, did not pull the clouds down upon the two rats. Cabbie sneered at Sorel's tempered response. "And you may continue on with your pilfered goods."

"We haven't stolen nothin'." The rattess stepped forward this time, dangerous and slow where her partner sputtered curses under his breath. "Best mind your own, dirtdog."

"This mewling," with a curled lip that had preceded a broken jaw more than a few times in the Arbington of the past, "means nothing in the face of the truth. If you set aside every coin you earned for a year you could afford perhaps a single bunch of grapes from that vineyard. Every beast here knows it. Your Lord knows it. And if I find out which beast has lost so much coin to your paw, you will know it too."

The rattess glared at Sorel but the tod stood stone against her. She spat upon the ground and smacked Cabbie's side with her broad tail, signaling the retreat. Only when both rats were out of sight did Sorel return to his work. He did not acknowledge Cuprica, or even give her a nod of greeting. With a voice which shook the clouds above, he cannoned a command for the slave train to move onward into the Crucible.

Cuprica danced in place before the gate, set a worry to the bluejackets at guard, and, eventually, trundled off after her husband.

Maneuvering a dozen carts through the Crucible provided more challenge than Sorel counted on, and Cuprica caught up soon when the train reached a clogged crossroad before The Drag. At first she only studied the lines of his shoulders pressing through his tunic as he awaited clear passage. Despite the halt, and the lack of action on his part, the tod breathed heavy and deep, as though yards from a sprint's collapse. She reached out a paw to touch the roll of his back, to make sure this was indeed real.

A distant cry of panic, and he stepped away before she could touch.

Sorel knelt down by a collapsed slave's side, the squirrel's cart partner straining to keep his now-solo burden from rolling back. Without a word, the fox picked up the squirrel, placed him upon the cart's back, and took his place at the cart's handle. The second slave shirked from the boss performing a meager task, but Sorel himself still stood tall and barked the orders to march onwards.

Cuprica caught up once again, walked by his side, kept her muzzle straight ahead.

Sorel spoke first, as they rounded a corner to a hallway she'd painted the first day. Unlike most of her work, which featured fantasized nature or beasts in combat, the paint along the walkway ran as a series of geometric patterns framed in saturated shades, making the clean triangles and squares and so on pop.

"I have seen this before." Even hauling hundreds of pounds of stone mostly alone, Sorel's voice did not waver. "You painted the same for me along our kitchen's range."

"The mess passes on the left in this hall, so I thought it fitting." Again, Cuprica kneaded the front of her apron, her overlarge tail beating against the cart's side in a tripping rhythm. "Have you seen the ceiling yet?"

"Yes. The feathers."

And then silence. Cuprica expected little else from the beast of measures. They reached the eastern edge of the arena, in need of a few of the carts for unseen masonry and patchwork. Sorel flagged a passing bluejacket and forced them to take the injured squirrel to the infirmary, and then issued commands to the beasts at the front to lead on to the Crucible's border walls. The hall filled with bustling carts and clacking stones, then nothing once the carts passed away.

Cuprica tore holes into her apron's front in the kneading. Sorel raised a paw in a halting gesture, and she obeyed though she still gripped the cloth.

"You are not obligated to stay."

 _...Cuprica remained limp within her cocoon until they reached the edge of the docklands. She thrashed hard and felt him stagger - he adjusted and tightened his grip on both ends of the rolled carpet, and held fast until they reached home..._

"I know, but why did you help?"

"I requested willing sla...workers, but still they send me the tired and weak. Clare should not be broken by this task when I have strength to spare."

"No. Me. Why did you help me?"

"You had asked me not to, but guards who openly steal cannot be trusted."

 _...Cuprica bloomed from the carpet like a savage flower, a tangle of matted fur, foaming rage, and dribbling blood from her split, broken claws. Her first desperate strike fell short of Sorel's broad chest. She stumbled, skittered, surged upright again looking for the little stool by the bay window curtains… but it wasn't there. No stools, no knives, nothing. And the tod's silence said everything. He hid them all..._

"They grow bolder by the day, Sorel. Pairs now watch me paint for more than art. I find my belongings...jostled when I return to my room at night."

"Lechers and fools alike. Though, perhaps, they cannot resist you for your work."

 _...weeks of imbibing powders and spirits saw her ribs sticking out, her hips sharp and shaking where curl and heft once ran. But the palsy paled against her fury. A ceramic bowl, hefted with strength distilled from bile, whipped past the tod's head and burst on the wall behind him. A scattered fusillade of household objects, everything she could so much as move, flew through the air, first toward the tod and then in whatever direction her limbs decided..._

"No...they've no interest in painting..."

"You are likely right." He considered the hallway pattern of Cuprica's design, spending overlong studying the thousands of shapes all uniform and marching between the bursts of color. "But perhaps they will learn as I have."

 _Shattered ceramic littered the floor; shreds of curtain and cushion filled the gaps. Her paws shook and her breath shuttered and she sank onto her knees, and only then did he place a paw along her muzzle._

" _Sorel, y-you don't understand…it's part of my work...it's..."_

" _No, you are the one without clarity. You must not leave until you have found some."_

"I do not know this fox before me...what do you play at, Sorel?"

"Days along these halls taught me why I appreciate this pattern so much." Sorel placed a paw upon the wall, as she'd seen him do so when measuring the weight of a beam. "Shape and colour, regimented and unregimented. Equal parts order and disorder, each of which cannot exist without the other."

"...so that was what it meant to you, when you asked for shapes upon our range."

"Perhaps I spoke without words. And perhaps you did as well, when you added your colours between."

The edges of the hallway frayed, the stone and flickering lamplights contorted at the corners of Cuprica's vision. In the blur she did not realize Sorel now stood before her, raised his paw, cupped the side of her muzzle. Warmth spilled through her chest and limbs, and she smelt the granite upon his claws as she pressed deeper against the…

Cuprica pulled away and to the far wall. And then alarm. Naked alarm upon Sorel's muzzle as sudden and sound as the vixen's retreat.

"I am sorry," said Sorel. "I did not mean to push. I thought you would understand."

Again, porcelain littered the floor, but not upon the wood slats of their dockside home. Cuprica tried focusing on the shards, but they stretched and blurred against the stone of the Crucible's halls, like ice melting and reforming on a hearth. Thousands of shards, all pulsing as the frayed edges of her vision closed in, took her like the tide, contorted the tod's gray work shirt until his entire body blurred like running paint. Her eyes widened at the renewed blur, and she reached in the space between to reform the smear with her own claws. Yet, no swipes or strokes removed the porcelain from the floor, the inscrutable screw of Sorel's muzzle.

"I...I want…"

The impressions of his paw past and present lingered on her muzzle. Through the haze, she discerned Sorel's respectful distance, open palms, and spread arms. The blur of rain-streaked canvas wound out from his paws in all directions, murky brown and vivid in equal part, swirling ever upwards and into the crimson clouds above, clear and heavy even through the Crucible's ceiling. Layer after layer he fed the sky, until the vermillion ran violet.

Cuprica's jaw slackened at the cold realization, at the sky breaking through the ceiling and filling her heart and mind. Though his arms spread wide in submission, she saw only claws heavy and final, capable of churning the earth and ceasing her own heart...and yet, they were also arms capable of carrying her away from games of hemlock and service, to the fields where their children may play, to the bay window where they may watch the sails of inbound merchants on the horizon.

And he would hold her still. And, between fear and longing, she would let him.

Cuprica woke up sometime later on the upper tiers of the Crucible, sitting immobile beside a planter of ivy she'd kept warm and watered throughout the cold weather. By the the light of hallway candles and the filter of amber through the outfacing window slats, she figured night approached. Her stomach rumbled in protest of a day without real food, but the ache buried beneath the weight.

The weight. The weight made her shoulders heave, her legs ache from fleeing Sorel's side. Yet, she was so tired of running...

"Mrs. Rendai?"

The floor here did not surge or run sharp with imagined pottery shards. Cuprica breathed deep and took in the salt of the high ocean breeze, the sweat of her chafed thighs, and a careful application of powder. The powder perked her ears, and solidified the world into colors and shapes she must understand.

The fitch, Solomon. He stood over her in his belted robes of office, his carefully trimmed fur, and his whiff and aura of soaps and powders not many Crucible denizens employed.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your meditations, but this is an emergency." Solomon bowed with the apology, his thick, ferrety tail swishing with practiced deference. "Lord Hale wishes to see you immediately."

"W-who?" The window to the sky, the plunge of snow, the plain desk filled with deadly little vials. The names snapped into place with reality, her hackles and ears standing on edge. "For w-what?"

"His will is his own. After me, please."

Cuprica scrambled upright and followed Solomon down the twisting hallways and to the office of Hale Seftis. Four bluejackets stood outside the already open door, combing the bedraggled vixen for signs of mischief or willingness. She kept her head down, pulled her bandana lower, and tucked into the office after Solomon.

The door shut behind them, and the wildcat stood at the very edge of his vacant fourth wall.

"Is this her, fitch."

Not a question, but a command. By practice, Solomon swung to the east end of the room and presented Cuprica with a nod and a bow, though she remained at the door. Hale's turn came sudden, and the sunset behind silhouetted the cat and transformed him into a creature of darkness which cast a shadow upon the vixen's body. Cuprica shielded her eyes, tried making out his features, but all washed away for the glare.

"I will ask you one question," said Hale. "And I will know if you lie."

Cuprica did not answer save for her claws looping into the holes along her apron's chest.

"Where are they?"

The answer popped into her head immediately: the little ivy planter in the hallway separated itself from the soil and revealed 10 bruise-hued vials tucked at the bottom. Yet, the knowledge was not conveyed in her stance or silence. The mental image faded as she took in the spread of pearlescent ocean behind Hale, so strong and uniform against the chaotic, violet clouds above. Her head tilted with the study of color, and how each cloud layered upon the other to fuse with the sun upon the horizon.

The churning clouds above, the patterned waves below. Cuprica ears lowered on realizing no amount of running could enhance the distance...on realizing she no longer wanted the distance, but the sun's warmth upon her fur once more.

Cuprica shook her head.

"Is she mute?" said Hale.

"No, but she is…" Solomon stepped to Cuprica's side and took her paw in his, a delicate gesture as if he handled glass. "...an artist, if you understand."

"Do not talk down to me, fitch."

"Of course not, milord. I only imply that she's...unique."

The wildcat silhouette shifted in place, and turned back towards the setting sun.

"She is to remain in her quarters until I've said otherwise," said Hale.

"Lord Cain will not approve. He is eager to see his project-"

Cuprica clamped her ears shut once the yelling began. She could not make out the bulk of the snarls, but at one point the office door opened and a bluejacket checking on the commotion received a renewed buffet of shouts. Solomon, at her side, clenched her paw a little tighter, but otherwise kept collected and calm. He only bowed once the tirade ended, and escorted Cuprica into the hallway.

Paw holding turned into taking her arm. Cuprica did not notice, for she only trembled with the steps, unsure of whether Hale's barrage or the collapsing sky stole her balance. No, she'd seen this rage once before. Even now, she saw it reflected in the dissolving edges of the pottery along the floor, a vixen feral and alive as she starved for the air.

Solomon stopped them both once they reached the residential wing.

"Mrs. Rendai? Cuprica?" He spoke low and certain, a whiff of acid cutting through his powdered hide. "Did you take anything from the office?"

Cuprica nodded, and Solomon's breath hitched.

"By Vulpuz, why!?"

"I've seen...I've seen what that poison brings." A flash of marsh fox kings choking, swelling, layering with colors not found within the waking world. "It does not belong in anybeast's paws."

She'd not known her reason for taking them at all, and blamed the color in the slow moments when she watched the deep purple liquid roll in the vials. But the truth of the matter rang sound, and calmed Solomon by a good many measures.

"And where are the vials?" Cuprica did not answer, and Solomon turned on her in full. "I promise you will stay safe, I promise to see them returned, but you _must_ tell me where they are now."

Solomon held her arms like a doll being taken off of a shelf. This beast's face did not smear, or gnash, or display any shred of panic. Only concern, and a mounting frustration which knit the fitch's normally smooth features. He'd offered her safety, offered her purchase in a savage Crucible, and even now, at risk to himself, he offered again.

Cuprica lead the way back along the corridors until they reached the planter's alcove. Without ceremony she dug her claws into the soil and pulled the entire cylinder of plant and earth free.

No vials in the bottom of the pot. Nothing. Cuprica stuck the plant back in and pulled it out once again, as though this would summon the vials. She checked the packed bottom of the planter, her apron pockets, the inner alcoves of her shift and trousers, but not a single vial appeared.

Solomon's eyes opened as wide as Cuprica's own, for she saw her own astonishment reflected in the fitch's iris.

"They were here," said Cuprica. "I promise you."

Cuprica lifted the dirt once more, and the bottom of the still-formed, still-compacted soil showed the indented outline of 10 vials, like a missing rib cage. Solomon nodded.

"To your room for now." The calm certainty smelled different this time, the acid returning by the breath. "Remain there until I come, and open the door for nobeast else."

"I'm sorry, Solomon."

"So am I."

Solomon bowed once more, and strode down the adjoining stairwell much faster than she'd ever seen the fitch move. She remained in place, replaced the plant to its planter, until the echo of pawsteps upon flagstones vanished.

The walk back to the residential wing seemed longer than any, and every stitch of fabric and strand of fur on her body sunk heavy towards the floor. The reality of the swirled, contorted world no longer caught her attention, but only persisted in bursts of chaos she dare not indulge for long. At the center of each stood her failings: disappointed Solomon, seeing herself in Hale's rage, the severed ties between the moon and sky.

Sorel.

Sorel stood before room twenty-three with his paw knocking firmly upon the door. No bursts of color, no collapsing sky, no smear before his stone expression. He knocked again, and in the noise Cuprica made her approach. His nose twitched in response before his eye and mind caught that she was by his side.

Cuprica opened room twenty-three, took his paw in her own, and guided Sorel inside.


	29. Fractured Mirror

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Fractured Mirror**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

The dungeon at Marshank was cold and dark and drippy, a place where misery came to fester.

There was no direct light source, making seeing difficult, and there was no creature awake nor hopeful enough to talk, thus creating a heavy and silent void that hung like a damp swarm of mosquitoes over the place.

The sudden jangling of keys in the thick metal door that opened up to the cells cut through the stiff nighttime air like a blade.

Bechtel jolted, and his ears flitted up, but he did not come awake enough to witness the fumbling procession of guards and prisoner that moved down the stairs.

Not until the door to the cell beside his was carelessly opened and the prisoner thrown in like a ragdoll to sob in a heap on the floor.

Upon the sound of the door slamming shut again and the bluejackets dispersing, he furrowed his brow and inched closer on all fours, sending out a skittish click when he reached the bars to see who it was.

Almost at once, a nervous expression crossed his face.

He fought with himself for words, at last letting out a faint, regretful "A...Ander?"

The figure only continued whimpering and made no move to look up.

The bat turned away. "Ander...it's Bechtel..."

"Oh, Beck!" the weasel exclaimed, making a sudden, jerky kick off the ground as he dashed for the bars. "How good it is to see you," he cried through the steady streams of water pouring down his face, trying to grab his friend's claws from through the bars. "How is it you are here? _How_ are you _here_...? I...I...oh, I...nhhng... _Beck_!"

All Bechtel could do was watch on in earnest as his friend slid to the ground in front of him, wailing as would a mother who lost her child.

"Ander..."

"Beck! Ohh, Beck, look at me-look at me!"

"...Ander, what happened?"

"Oh, th-that is right," Ander whimpered, trying to regain his voice, "You cannot see. I have scars-all down my back. I was whipped, Beck! _Whipped!_ " he blubbered, squeezing the color out of the bat's paw. "And on my face? A g...a _gash..."_

"A gash?"

Ander trembled. "Huge and diagonal!" he blurted. "I...I am n-n-not...handsome...anymore!"

The weasel's voice was drowned out again and Bechtel closed his eyes in growing shame.

"Are you bleeding?" he whispered, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot.

Ander sniveled and lifted his eyes, nodding shakily. "Yes," he murmured, "But the worst part of all? I can never go home. Never. N-Now, I have to stay here, and fight, again, Beck. No more vi-violin. I am not safe. I will _die..._ "

"You will not die, Ander."

Ander shook and shrunk further to the ground, pulling Bechtel's wing along with him.

" _I will..._ die _._ "

He sniffled, his grip on Bechtel getting weaker as he tried to hold himself and quell the pain from his wounds and the icy feeling in his stomach.

"I just do not understand, B-Beck. I had everything under control. My plan was perfect...there was n-nobeast who knew...H-How could it have gone so wrong...?"

"Ander, I do not know."

"But my plan was _perfect!"_ Ander shrieked, pulling himself up on his knees again. "I-I altered the schedule!" He grabbed at Bechtel's wing like one begging. "I tricked the guards! I was cunning and told _nobeast!"_ A gasping pause. "Well...nobeast but _you_ , but you know what I m-mean..."

Bechtel slowly and gently wiggled his arm from between Ander's claws.

"Beck?"

"What is it?" came the quiet reply.

Ander wrung his paws. "Oh, Beck, why aren't you looking at me? Have I embarrassed you?"

Bechtel bit his lip and said nothing.

"Why aren't you answering?" Ander whined. "You... _you_ wouldn't have told anybeast, would you? Beck?"

Silence.

" _Beck?_ "

The bat pulled back from the bars and shuffled his paws.

" _Bechtel_ , say something to me!" Ander screeched.

But Bechtel remained in the dark throughout his friend's sobbing, as if making a choice, and when he was ready he at last stammered out; "...It...It was for the greater good, Ander."

Ander sharply sucked in air.

His brown eyes, absent now of tears, widened notably. He was struck, pierced through not by an arrow but by Bechtel's own words, and so deeply that the color drained from his face and he brought himself to raise the question again.

"Y-You _told_ on me, Bechtel?"

"Let me explain!" Bechtel begged. "I had no choice! There were others..."

Ander glanced about desperately, an angry and mournful grimace setting onto his face.

"I do not want your shallow words, Bechtel!" he blurted, getting to his paws. "Are they all you have? How about something better? How about an apology?"

" _Ander_ ," Bechtel implored. "Please listen. I would not have done it if it were not for the greater good-"

"There you go AGAIN with that ' _greater good'_ thing, Bat!" Ander snapped, tremors jolting him and bloody tears running down his snout. He stopped short, and in tense silence, turned away from Bechtel and strove to keep the water out of his eyes again.

"...My friendship was the _greatest_ good I had ever given anybeast," the weasel muttered. "Though now...I can see that I erred. You did not want it."

"Ander, listen to me," Bechtel begged.

Ander scoffed.

"G-Goodbye, Bechtel... Good riddance."

Despite more attempts from the bat to explain himself, Ander moved to the furthest corner of his damp and dirty cell and kept his silence.

 _I gave him my all, and he took it with no remorse. I taught him to read, and he made me bleed._

And now he will watch me die.

~.~.~.~

Sleep's heavy, lifeless curtain fell suddenly to sounds of heavy footfalls.

Ander groggily lifted his head.

 _Not now...  
_  
Scooting painfully over to the bars of his cell, he trembled and stared out at the hall, his fur spiking.

Somebeast was out and about.

Was it Bechtel, somehow?

He shot a glance at the bat's prison and felt a twinge of sadness and anger rush through him at once.

No, the bat was still there.

So who-or what-could it be? Were the jail guards returning to prolong his torment? Or was it just his imagination playing tricks on him?

The weasel, straining to remain awake despite the potential danger at hand, pressed his face against the bars and watched a hulking figure materialize from the darkness. The creature stopped in front of his cell.

It was not his imagination but a dark, scowling ferret with a furrowed brow…a familiar creature to be certain, but he could not recall whom or where from.

The good news? No blue coat.

Ander shut his eyes, reveling in newfound apathy.

"You." said a gravelly voice. "You're the impudent weasel who tried to steal my rations."

Ander did not answer.

"It's quite seemly that you have been left here to starve. But for what crime, I wonder? You served as a benchmark in servitude for the Crucible..."

Ander looked up, eyes only half open. "Back off."

"Never caused any trouble for your captors, insofar as I can recall."

Ander shuddered and looked away.

Cruel, mirthless chuckling rose from the ferret. "How pathetic. The ruler becomes ruled. The Awe-Inspiring now... the uninspiring."

The cadence of water droplets coalescing into a nearby puddle filled the silence.

Again the ferret spoke, this time in a more menacing tone. "I can have you taken out of your misery right now, if you so desire. Let it be known there will not be much mercy given in the following days…"

"What 'mercy' could you possibly give?" Ander whispered, glaring at the floor. " _You_ can't fix any of this..."

"Oh, but I can! While you and your friends wandered these halls as aimlessly as you wander your lives, I managed to procure the resources needed to thrive. The whispers tell me you have an aptitude of forgery and imperceptibility."

Ander's ear twitched.

"You've got the wrong creature," he muttered, picking a spot of dried blood off his sleeve. "I don't _have_ friends."

"Associates, then." A pause, and then the sound of a throat clearing, "Very soon the tides will be turning. Perhaps revenge suits your interests better."

A sob entered Ander's voice. "I just want to go home!" the weasel blurted, locking eyes with the creature. He could not help but note that he wore no collar or chains. "If you can't provide that...go away!"

The ferret reached into his filthy surcoat. The sound of keys jingling, coming loose. He held them out for the prisoner to see. "I can free you. But with a price. You must follow my orders without question, and when the time comes I will send you back to your home."

Ander flinched. "No...I couldn't...I..."

He trailed off, thinking of Bechtel, and the bluejackets, and his punishment-and, consequently, of his own looming demise.

What sounded better, being a toady to this creature for some time, or never again feeling the excitement of freedom or seeing the light of day?

"But I have no choice."

Ander rubbed his eyes and stood, staring blankly at Vikkars. A small grimace wrinkled his snout.

"There's nothing more I could possibly want."

"Excellent!" laughed the ferret king, using the keys to unlock the cell. He pushed the doors open wide, "Now then, Mister Weasel. I have a favor to ask of you."

Ander sighed.

~.~.~.~

Midday came fast and with no comfort.

Ander had spent most of his morning with Drugaen Vikkars. He learned the ferret's name and intentions, but felt no reason-besides obligation-to listen.

Words whistled over his dizzy head.

He _owed_ him, or so he was told, and the overwhelming numbness that chilled Ander to the core kept him blandly silent.

Now, the once-proud weasel limped quietly through an empty corridor, ready to carry out the favor Drugaen had asked of him.

 _Find something that can be used to blackmail this Sorel creature...inside his room. Look for the red door..._

Ander halted and drew a paw up to rub his forehead. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but, oh, how everything stung.

 _Hurry!_ he chided himself. _The sooner you find this place the sooner you can rest._

The hallway gradually narrowed, and although Ander had passed a room or two he could see many more down at the down at the end. A number of painted wooden doors with fading colors and peeling paint lined the walls.

He took a step nearer and flinched when the floor creaked.

 _If somebeast hears me, I am good as dead. Red door..._

Beads of sweat trickling down his scarred face, the weasel flicked his eyes to and fro.

 _Red door! Where is the..._

There, at the end of the corridor. His ears perked slightly.

Padding up to it, Ander cautiously knocked, relieved to hear no response. He inhaled deeply and tried to open the door, only to pull and find it to be locked.

The weasel backed up. "Vikkars had best not be mad at me for this," he muttered to himself, wiping his brown paws on his coat and scowling. "Not my fault he didn't think that maybe this Sorel beast was smart enough to lock the cursed thing."

With a fleeting and dismissive stare, Ander started down the hall again, but this time with no intent.

All the rectangular doors were closed and had no windows, some with a label or letter painted on the front of them to signify the ownership of the creature that lived inside.

At first, they blew by Ander, and he took no heed. Then he began to envy the creatures that _owned things_ , and wondered with a twinge of grief if he would had a room like that had he gone to Redwall with Bechtel.

 _But Bechtel said he was unsure if he wanted to go to Redwall, and that dream is but shattered glass beneath your paws! Bechtel did not value you!_

The sounds of pawsteps and then a doorknob turning cut through the silence.

Ander whirled, his heart pounding, and scrambled into the archway at the turn of the hall-which, to his horror, led not to another corridor but to a room with large, open windows and potted plants.

The creature, whomever it was, stepped out of his room.

A frightened gasp sprang from Ander's throat, and he dashed to the back of the chamber and ducked behind the greenery.

 _This is my end,_ he lamented mentally, peering through the leaves. _Though I shall let it come. The tales they will tell of the weasel found hiding in their garden will be worthwhile if it is my ticket from this cruel and terrible place!_

He braced himself and hid his face under his arms, not wishing to see the creature when he found him.

But to his surprise and mixed relief and disappointment, the beast headed right past the entrance to the greenhouse.

Ander waited a few more seconds and listened to his heartbeat, then when he was sure he was going to be safe he rose and stumbled out from his hiding place to take a gander at the room.

It was, quite possibly, the best thing he had smelt since his arrival in Marshank.

There were plants hanging from the ceiling and in sturdy metal pots on the floor, and rows of empty trays with soil lining them for spring when it came. And above the archway, fastened atop the entrance? A homely wooden sign with the words "Planter's Alcove" scrawled across it in blue and yellow paint.

The weasel paced around, taking it all in, and felt the faintest, thinnest, most transparent smile cross his face. To think that there could be some form of new life in such a desolate place as Marshank absolutely baffled him.

There were junipers and ferns and many herbs and spices, but what caught his eye and drew him nearer happened to be a green potted plant with a single red rose blossoming within its leaves.

Ander tiptoed over to it and sniffed.

"Such beauty as this does not belong here," he murmured, reaching out a claw to touch it and skim its petals. "An effigy of myself in the purest..."

So careless was the move that the pot tipped and toppled, casting both itself and the plant out onto the stone floor.

Ander wailed, dropping on to his knees.

Soil was everywhere.

Fumbling, he grabbed a clump to put back into the pot, but instead of the dirt, he felt something smooth and cold roll over in his paw.

Ander shook his dizzy head.

There in his clutches, if his eyes were not mistaken, lay a miniscule vial of liquid, crafted of brownish green glass and triangular in shape. He dusted it off and held it up to his ear, shaking it.

 _Completely full._

Without thinking, he pulled the cork off and sniffed it.

 _I know what this is. This...is the poison from the dinner._

Ander gazed about before jamming the tiny flask into his pocket, thoughts of being forced to fight in the Crucible encircling his mind. A grim, oddly satisfying feeling overcame him. Now, he would be in charge of his own death.

But it came from the plant.

Turning back to the pot, he rose and completely tipped it over, watching as, to his gratification, a host of nine clinking glass bottles tumbled from the dirt to display themselves in front of him.

There was no second thought.

Ander gathered them into his pockets, sloppily threw the plant back together, and then ran off, thinking intensely of the ten possibilities he now held in his coat.


	30. Forget About the Blame

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Forget About the Blame**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _The wind robs these words so quickly from our lips, and the mind does not keep them forever. It seems they are destined to wither and fade._

 _My voice is tired from speaking these words, rubbed raw from remembrance and effort. I commit them now to eternal ink, that my heart may be known by all who read._

 _I am so very, deeply sorry._

 _~.~.~.~_

Light knew no path into the cell. The barred windows made promises of day, but each rang hollow. The only glow Bechtel knew was the pallid shimmer of the guard's candle, come from somewhere where time still reigned. It never lingered long. Like a beast thrust into a world unfit for life, it did its duty then vanished once more to its realm, up the winding stairs. Only the scraps of hardened, moldy bread offered any indication that the light existed as more than a flicker of his imagination.

Worst of all was the silence.

Ander's refusal to speak had at least offered the comfort of presence, but the candles and guards spirited him away some time ago. The weasel left behind only silence and words.

 _"My friendship was the greatest good I had given anybeast... But you did not want it."_

Bechtel hissed and slammed his head against the wall. The world spun and pain prickled down his scalp, but the silence and sound retreated.

"It's not my fault," he snarled. "Ander didn't listen. I tried to warn him, but he didn't listen!" He slammed his wing down, then howled at the stab of pain. Blood clots burst, heat trickled down frost-festered skin, the cut of membrane dangled like soiled garments upon clothesline.

He felt tears irritate his eyes. He smothered them before they could grow further. They would do no good, only bring to mind questions that were too painful to confront.

He drifted to some bridge between sleep and wakefulness, where the cold still clung, the pain still throbbed, and the silence still pressed.

The flicker of flame returned, and beckoned him wake.

Bechtel drew his knees tighter to him, steeling himself for the proffered food. Another bite of that moldy bread and he would burn from fever, yet his stomach yearned for anything to quell its desire.

The patter of the guard's footsteps echoed against stone. Bechtel's ears perked up. More footsteps followed. Two, four, a dozen. He raised his head and clicked.

Bechtel leapt to his feet, ignoring the protest of his stiff muscles and aching flesh. Numerous beasts funneled down the stairway, and a guard escorted each. Bechtel recognized them all, though many he knew of were missing from their group.

Horror crept into his heart. Fear roared within his chest, begging him to ignore their presence. Against it, he clicked once more.

 _Failure,_ the echoes told him. _Failure scored upon their faces. Lashes upon their backs. Shame on their shoulders._

Bechtel staggered towards the bars of his cell. He clicked again.

 _A weeping architect. A snarling assistant. A broken traitor. Hopeless slaves. And at the back of them all…_

He saw her.

Molly walked without heed to the pressing dark, the waiting silence, or the scabbed lashes strewn across her body. She strode forward with an intensity he recognized, but gone was her beauty. It was if a claw had hooked into her and ripped it free, leaving something dark and twisted to scab over.

She turned to him. And frowned.

Every unanswered question, every unspoken fear, every shattered hope—they all crashed into him like the black waves of a timeless sea. Bechtel collapsed against the bars, feeling something break within him.

He did not cry. He did not rage. He did not rush to justify or excuse the creeping condemnations surfacing in his thoughts. He simply sat and stared, well after the echoes fell to black.

Blood ceased to flow. Scabs formed. The cold stiffened his joints. The silence reigned once more, and this time, Bechtel did not retreat.

He was not sure how long he waited, but when he spoke, his voice issued forth as nothing more than a feeble croak.

"…did you mean it?"

 _She sits within the opposite cell. She looks at no one. She does not move._

Bechtel attempted to draw in a breath, but it broke midway down his throat. "Any of it?"

 _She does not move._

His eyes burned with burgeoning tears. "Tell me I'm wrong, Boss." They slid down his face, striking the frost beneath with a cold sizzle. "Please. Just tell me it was an accident. That everything just went wrong."

 _She does not mo-_

"One more beast." Her voice rattled dry from disuse. "One more beast to die for me, and I would be free." She did not speak for some time, as if weighing if more needed to be said. Finally, she continued, "You were the most important part of the plan, Bechtel, and you were everything I needed. Loyal… Fearless… Stupid."

Bechtel quivered against the bars. "I… I thought that—"

"I have had everything taken from me. My wings, by birth. My family, by disapproval. My freedom, by _him._ " She bared her teeth, and a primal growl crawled forth from her. "I deserved my reward. More than any of you, _I_ deserved my freedom, my peace."

"That's enough, Quintock," August's voice, though haggard, rose with the authority of his tattered, blue jacket.

Fear kept his throat tight, but a final question boiled within him until he could not longer withstand it. "Why me?"

"I know what you are, Bechtel. I've seen too many beasts come through this place to not recognize you." She turned and finally faced him. "You're a coward."

Bechtel shrank back from the bars.

"You want comfort. You want pity. You want your sins recognized, but not confessed. You want love, but you've done nothing to earn it." She stood up and prowled close to the bars. A room separated the two cells, yet Bechtel stepped back regardless. "You don't want freedom. You just want the next set of distractions to justify your running feet and bleeding claws."

August leapt up, latching a paw around Molly's collar and flinging her back. "You've done enough. I'll keep your peace if I must, hmm."

Molly pushed herself up from the floor, ignoring the burning stares of those around her. "Save your fire for the arena, spikedog. There, it will be my domain."

Bechtel said nothing. No more words came. The dark offered no comfort, and the silence lay broken. The ruin rose louder than ever, sending him pressed back against the cold walls.

"I'm sorry." August's voice from the dark beyond, its timbre low and fragile. "You don't know how sorry I am. I thought I was doin' the right thing, but…"

His voice trailed off, swallowed by the ruin.

 _It's not my… not my fault._

He thought of Tope, and the care turned to loathing.

 _She admitted it herself._

He thought of Truson, and the wisdom left to die.

 _I couldn't… shouldn't have known._

He thought of Cuprica, and the vision undeserved.

 _I didn't mean for this!_

He thought of Ander, and the hope broken by his own claws.

 _It's not what I wanted._

He thought of Gurry, and the blood-stained cobblestone.

 _None of this. I tried to be better. I tried my best._

He thought of the guidance offered by many, and the blame he left each.

 _It wasn't enough. It was never enough!_

He thought of home. He thought of cherry orchards, of dew-touched grass, of whispers in the willows. He thought of fireplace crackle and chatter, surrounded by the smells and warmth of ancient pages. He thought of almond bread, always baked with too much honey to satisfy Atrus' sweet tooth.

And he thought of when it all shattered before him.

 _The door shut behind him, the howl of winter's breath muffled. Bechtel shook the fresh snow from his shoulders, setting his basket of goods on the dining table._

" _Father, I'm back!" he called out, tugging his thick scarf and drooping hat off._

 _He rubbed at his shoulders, frowning at the lingering cold within the house. He stepped to the hearth and retrieved one of the pokers. The wood felt firm to the touch—no fire had been started at all today. He set the poker on the table and entered the library._

" _Father, I know it's a pain to start, but you'll catch a chill if you don't have a fire going."_

 _He saw no sign of Atrus in the library, but several few words squeezed under the shut door to the study. When they returned, Bechtel sighed and opened the study door._

" _If you're going to take a nap, at least grab a blanke—"_

 _Bechtel froze. Atrus lay motionless in his chair, as the first echoes had told him, but there was nothing more. Gone was the rhythmic motion of his hoarse breath. Gone was the peace of rest that haloed about him. The mouse before him lay rigid, and completely so._

 _He could not breathe. He could not move. In the cold of the study, Bechtel waited for a sign that the echoes lied to him. If ever he wished to be truly blind, he did so now._

 _His feet moved of their own volition, drawing him to the beckoning form of his father. He rounded the desk, then reached out a trembling claw._

" _F-Father…?"_

 _He felt stiff flesh, cold and solid as if carved from a block of granite. He fell back with a choked scream. Gathering himself, he rushed once more to his father's side, gripping the cold frame and shaking him._

" _Father, wake up! Please, wake up!"_

 _Every plea, every motion confirmed yet further his horror. He buried his face into Atrus' neck, screams and sobs muffled against the body. He pulled himself back, searching for signs of wrong-doing. A vermin, perhaps, had snuck into the house. Constable Portly had mentioned sightings of the fiends by the edges of the Moss._

 _No weapon scored Atrus' body, no marks of abuse or pain. The only affliction lay in the mouse's face, the usual life and joy robbed by stolid coldness._

 _Bechtel paused upon spotting something clutched in the mouse's paw. Scrubbing the still-flowing tears from his face, he pulled the parchment free and clicked._

 _The words remained a mystery to his lack of sight, but a form upon the bottom caught his attention—a stamp of wax, displaying three folds of fern held firmly by a single paw. He recognized it immediately—the family seal of the Gerthwins._

 _Fire ignited within him. Them. It was them who did this. Whether by poison or pain, they lay at the root of it all. Their lust for his father's estate ran so dark that they would stoop to evil to see it acquired._

 _They may be woodlanders, but they had the hearts of vermin. And he would prove it._

 _Bechtel rushed to the dining table and snatched up the iron poker. He threw the door open, and felt the cold crash against the fire within his chest. It urged him to stay, to think. He took a step out, and slammed the door to home shut._

And like a bottle dropped, he broke.

For the first time in a very long time, Bechtel let himself weep. The sorrow and shame all bursted at the seams. He mustered no effort to shift the blame that fell upon him-not to the dungeon that chained him, or its masters, or the manipulator that sat across from him.

The pain, the regret, the waste of it all writhed together, invisible paws weaving a tapestry within his mind. He recognized the handiwork as his own, then beheld the tapestry's image: blame. Unforgivable, all-consuming blame.

Once more, he felt the heft of the iron poker in his claw as he beat the life from the begging Gerthwin patriarch. He heard the screams of the crowd as he slammed Gurry to slake his need for justice. He tasted ash as he condemned Tope and Truson and too many beasts to remember. He smelled the sweet intoxications of Molly's promises for a future. He saw the hope die in Ander's eyes, as the weasel beheld what sort of beast Bechtel truly was.

 _It's me. It's all my fault._

His tears ran out, and his voice broke to a ragged hiss, but still he mourned. The work of his claws lay bare before him, and for the first time, he knew what manner of beast he was: a woodlander with the heart of a vermin.


	31. Turn a Deeper Blue

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Turn a Deeper Blue**

 _By: Tope Benwrath_

* * *

Tope Benwrath mindlessly rapped his claws against the metal bars of his cell while he stared out at the whispering captors. Dozens of times he almost yelled at them, demanding to know what was going on, why all the prisoners were being locked up for so long. Eventually he wrung the bars in frustration and settled down onto his cot.

 _They'll tell us eventually. I just need to be patient._ The stoat had a sinking feeling in his gut that the bat Bechtel's absence played a part in the indefinite lockdown. _Time will tell all._

He almost drifted into sleep when the changing of the guards gave the prisoners in his cell a brief respite.

"Did you hear the news? That crazy mongoose won the fight, Kahmabutcha the Devoted- he beat The Frostfang!"

"I don't believe that. He beat Bragglin the Strangler an' Armand an' Aveline. No way he lost to the Devoted, mate."

"Ye better believe it. A close fight it was too, right up to the end."

"Aargh, that one eyed rabbit three cells down is going to run me dry, I owe him my rations for the next two days!"

Tope sat upright from his cot and faced his cellmates. "Is the Frostfang alright?"

"That's one's dead as a doornail. Real shame, too. Seemed like an alright sort of creature."

 _I can't believe it._ Tope stared at the ground in disbelief. He pressed his claws to his face and sighed deeply. _He's actually gone. I tried to warn him, but I guess it was just too late._

The stoat shook the despairing thoughts from his mind and settled down to sleep, and before he knew it, it overtook him almost immediately.

He could see the Crucible fight against Iwan, playing out again before him. The vision of the figure in a light blue dress watching from above- The rapier from the enemy piercing his shoulder- His own bloodied visage roaring and gnashing his fangs- the blood flies-

Iwan dying before his footpaws, the outrage of the crowd behind him. The face of Laurence materialized from above, muttering meaningless and empty words.

The sound of a cell door forced open tore Tope from out of his sleep.

"Get up, you lot! Cain Seftis has a special announcement for the lot o' ye!" yelled a bluejacket, banging his spear shaft against the metal bars.

Tope and the others from his cells were roughly brought out with the all the others. Once each of the slaves were corralled together, the soldiers chained them up together with chain gangs.

While on the move to somewhere the stoat turned to the creature to his immediate right. "Hey. Where do you think they are taking us?"

Dain the squirrel shook his head. "I dunno, they've never taken all of us out of our cages at once! Mus' be somethin' awfully important going on."

Beyond the horizon, red peeked from behind the coliseum walls as the group was escorted into the empty Crucible arena stands. Tope noticed a score of heavily armed bluejackets all hovering nearby.

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked one slave.

Tope looked to the Lord's Stand and saw Cain Seftis viewing the processions. The wildcat glowered at the gathering below him, looking angrier than ever before. _He's back from his business trip already, what's going on?_ The stoat also took a mental note of Hale not being present for the slapdash congregation.

"Welcome, all of you. I'm sure you must have been sleeping peacefully. You're probably wondering why we have gathered each of you today. I'm certain you've heard tell of our recent escapees. If not, let me fill you in: several prisoners conspired to escape the justice of the Crucible. They all have been caught, and now face the very justice they sought to run from."

At the wildcat's signal, the gates opened on all side of the arena. Several notable creatures, not just prisoners, were escorted through the doors: _the heads of the constructions_ \- an elder mouse and his fox apprentice, Molly Quintock the slave trainer, a member of the Crucible aristocracy, and- _August..._

Tope watched as the former healer followed the rest of the group, paws pressed together by the rough iron shackles he wore. The hedgehog did not hold his head up high like before, and his face looked worn and eyes strained red. _I can't believe it._

Each one of the prisoners were corralled to the center and their shackles removed. The fox apprentice, Merrick, lifted his footpaw away after he almost stepped on the row of blades neatly laid in the center of the arena.

Tope scanned the group again and he still did not see Bechtel among the convicted. _Was he killed during the escape, perhaps?_

"In a Crucible first, they all will enter the arena at the same time." He turned his eyes toward the escapees. "But only one will get to leave."

All of the captives in the center of the arena turned to look at one another in stunned silence. Some looked on with expressions of disbelief. Others had resolution marked on their faces.

"...So in short, may the best creature win!"

August turned to face his comrades and cut over the rising din of voices. "Let's all discuss this with rationale. It's not too late for us to work together again!"

"I can't die. I won't die, if anybeast deserves to walk out of here alive it's me!" roared Orban the mouse architect as he picked up a blade.

"That's easy for you to say," complained the aristocrat, a shifty-eyed otter. "Using your daughter as a crutch. What makes you think your life is worth more than mine?"

"How dare you accuse me, of using my daughter as a - aaauggh!" The blade thrown from Molly's claws pierced his chest and the old mouse fell to the ground in agony, and all hell broke loose.

August tried his hardest to yell over the screaming and clashing of metal, but it proved to be of no use. Each of the other captives fought with an utter desperation, paying no heed to the sanctimonious hedgehog.

Tope watched the events of the battle unfold- feeling unable to turn his gaze away from the brutal display of violence. The feeling of a cold gust tickling the sides of his face caused for his hackles to rise. Finally turning left, Fate stood gracefully before him.

 _"Do you feel anything for them? For any of them?"_

The aristocrat threw a sword at Molly but missed, and she struck him in the arm with her long claws. He grunted and gripped his shoulder.

"I... I don't..." Tope said aloud. "I don't know."

August grabbed a longsword and used it to block the oncoming blow from Merrick the fox apprentice. The hedgehog openly wept, as the great mind of a once sprouting architect now sought out his death.

Behind them, Molly leapt onto the aristocrat before savagely raking him with her long claws. Noticing that she was distracted by her victim's cries, Merrick darted over and stabbed her through the back, again and again, the bat fell to the ground and tried crawling away.

The former bluejacket furiously rushed over to Merrick, and the two restarted their sword fight.

Turning left to face Fate once again, Tope saw no reaction or emotion from her. She only looked down on the stoat from above, watching.

August blocked the fox's swing downward and punched him in the face with his free fist. The unexpected counterattack put Merrick off-balance for a moment, but he did not fall. Another attack, again, this time followed up with a sweep kick and the fox fell to the ground.

He stabbed the fox in the chest and watched as the light in his eyes slowly faded away.

No roars of acclamation or thunderous applause greeted the hedgehog's unlikely victory. The slaves and lesser beasts of the Crucible simply looked onward in sullen quiet. Only one creature in the crowd clapped.

"...And the victor is none other than- the traitorous bluejacket, August! What a wonderful turn of events! What poetic justice! The one creature among the escapees most accustomed to bringing others to the Crucible to be judged for the crimes, is now forced to live a life of a lesser."

August faced the Crucible Lord, his chest heaving with exertion. His face contorted into anguish and he fell to his knees.

Cain Seftis took to his seat again as his grin grew wider. "So tell me, traitor, did you really think we were going to let you off that easily? For now and the rest of your days, you will wear weights on your footpaws, on top of the shackles, even in Crucible combat."

Several bluejackets entered the arena and placed the downcast survivor back into chains before escorting him out. The wildcat gave a sardonic wave to the disappearing figure.

"Enjoy your stay in the Drag. I'm sure your cellmates will give you a warm reception to be sure!"

Cain turned back to the procession of slaves below him. "Let this be a lesson remembered, for all of you."

~.~.~.~

Tope sat alone in his cage, looking over the rest of the sleeping prisoners. His mind flickered and churned with the actions of today. _Fate has a reason for keeping him alive. If he was meant to die, he would have died today in that arena. And yet he still lives._

"Mister Benwrath!" Tope jumped at the noise. He turned to see the squirrel slave Dain urgently waving at him from one cell. "I just talked with some o' the other prisoners. Did ya hear? They says that Whip ain't the Cap'n no more! Musta overheard somebeast talkin' about it, I'd wager. They says he's been kicked out o' the Crucible an' Wimmick is the Cap'n now."

"What happened?"

"He was kidnappin' foreign travelers who didn't do anything wrong an' throwin' them into the Crucible! Cain found out an' he wasn't happy."

 _That's just like what they did with me._

Tope turned back to the squirrel staring at him. "I'm gonna… go to sleep now. All right?" Dain nodded and looked away.

He did not get to sleep for long, since the sounds of somebeast opening the front entryway to the Drag woke him. A couple bluejackets filtered into the prison block and began scanning over each of the cells.

"Look for Benwrath. The administrator said he was a stoat," muttered one of them nearby.

After a couple minutes the group located Tope. They kicked at him and he pretended to come awake in a daze. Wasting no time, the guards opened the cell doors and whisked him away from the dark prison cells and up the winding stairs into the Upper Offices.

Eventually the bluejackets brought him into a room Tope was unfamiliar with. The walls were decorated in many layers colors and drawings, some of which still looked quite new. Some of the drawings overlapped others, while some paintings appeared to be prototypes or sketches of others. Hale stood over a drawing crossed out with many stray lines and exes.

"What is this place."

"An in-between. This place will suffice for now."

"Why am I here?"

"Because you are being given the opportunity of a lifetime." Hale looked down from the ceiling and returned the stoat's stare. "A rare opportunity, one to satiate your lust for revenge."

Tope's breath hitched and his eyes widened.

"Yes, a chance to finally complete a promise to your family. Tonight, I will give you the time and place to slay the former bluejacket August."

 _This is the moment I've been waiting for._ Killing August would bring Tope one step closer to avenging his family and bringing him a peace of mind. "When?"

"Right now. He's currently sleeping in a cell alone-"

Hale's voice seemed to wither away as Tope reflected on the lucky break. _Chasing after August caused so many setbacks, but now I'll finally get my chance._ But eventually the sounds turned to a buzz. Fate stared back at him from the eyes of Hale Seftis. She held no expression.

After a moment, the smile on the stoat's face changed into a somber grimace.

"-The moment you are ready, knock on the door thrice and the guards will-"

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

Hale gave a smile, but the stoat knew it held no mirth behind it. "Perhaps you misheard me. I'm giving you a chance to kill your mortal enemy..."

"I heard what you said just fine."

"The hedgehog, he is responsible for the murder of your family, is he not? It's his fault that your entire family rots in the earth. He could not help, so he fled. Don't you want him dead?"

"This ain't the way to do it."

Hale looked down at the stone floor. His ears laid back against his head. "Fate brings you here, right here to this very moment, and yet you say no? Do you have any idea what you are implying? By rejecting Fate's call?"

Tope shook his head. "This ain't Fate's doing. This was all set up by you."

"You disappoint me greatly, Tope Benwrath. I expected more of you." The wildcat placed his claws in his mouth and whistled. Two guards bustled in almost immediately. "We're done here."

He turned back to the stoat before him. "Goodbye, Mister Benwrath."

As the guards dragged him out of the room, he turned back to see Hale shaking his head in what Tope discerned to be disappointment.

Behind the wildcat, Fate smiled.


	32. Christmas Card

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Christmas Card  
**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

Snow piled against the sides of the railing, and above the doorway was a line of icicles. Blackness marked the skies above the mercenary. Only white specks of snow and the otter's torch illuminated the surrounding landscape.

Apart from the Crucible sentries walking their rounds, nobeast was awake or walking about this late into the night. Not a single guard worked up the courage to ask the physically imposing otter where he was going. He found that he preferred it that way. Especially since they did not appear to have faces when he attempted to look them in the eye.

He was heading toward the main entrance hall. With nothing to aesthetically please or entertain his mind, the otter considered within for his plans of the night.

His plans of the night. His plans of the night... Why couldn't he concentrate on anything?

Something wasn't right.

The enormous open hall entrance was much larger than Laurence remembered. Colder, too. His only company here was a troupe of bluejackets standing in formation near the exit.

Are those soldiers going to care if I'm walking out into the dark this late at night?

He was starting to button up his jacket when the wide oak door entrance creaked open. The howling winds that filtered inside were so strong that his torch was snuffed out.

Countless new faces poured through the entrance, grateful to be escaping the cold. Various different types of creatures. Mostly mammals. All of them in chains.

A small gang of bluejackets corralled the group together. Like the sentries of the Crucible, their faces were muddled and blurry. The only discernible face was that of the female squirrel with a scar across her cheek- Laurence knew her from somewhere. She barked orders to the other soldiers while scribbling down notes on a tablet.

The squirrel scrutinized each prisoner in turn, then gestured in a direction with her charcoal stick. Groups soon formed of the newcomers, sized up and segmented by various factors at which Laurence could only guess.

The mercenary's eyes began to rime over at the sight of an otter mother and her cubs huddled together. He watched as several bluejackets worked together to separate the pair of young ones from their hysterical parent.

Once they were successful at separating the cubs, four bluejackets whisked them away from the hall to Fates-knows-where. When the mother began to squall, she was clubbed into silence. The squirrel leader gave a laugh and vocally noted the mother was going to be an excellent fighter in the arena.

Frostfang continued watching as they were all taken in various different directions. Some of them would become indentured servants until they died. The others would help with construction, or become unwilling participants in the arena.

Welcome to the Crucible, he whispered-

~.~.~.~

One enormous gasp of air and his eyes flew open. He was pulled into a coughing fit while he desperately took in all his surroundings.

"He's alive! Stop the bleedin' in his abdomen!" yelled a commanding voice. "Somebeast get him some papaver, now! Move, damn it!"

Another ragged breath. Another wave of coughing, the cavalcade of blood pouring from below.

A creature in white, forcing a bitter liquid down his throat.

"Now keep him pinned down until he settles! It'll be a mere matter of _moments..."_

~.~.~.~

 _He was back home._

 _Again, both of his brothers were there. Mother watching over them._

 _The four seated around the table. They were having fish for dinner this time._

 _Laurence was seated at the head, his claws steepled. Shadder was running his mouth again, and Royen was quick to interject. Mother followed soon after. For all the words they traded, they managed to say very little._

 _All of them tried to deflect, to change course, to do anything but address the subject looming over them all._

 _Like a lord overlooking his kingdom, he surveyed the table before him, the beasts gathered, and the empty chair across from him. And yet, despite the responsibility thrust upon his shoulders, he felt no pride. No satisfaction. Only duty._

" _And- and that's when all of them came pouring out of the doorway; Private Dyers was ready for 'em with a cauldron of boiling water, the screams... the screams, they still haunt me-"_

" _That's enough, Shadder." Right after he spoke, without any sort of warning, a sense of deja vu swept over him like a tidal wave- and melted away just as swiftly._

 _Father!_

 _He jumped to his footpaws and ran towards the stairwell, the sounds of something heavy hitting the steps- already beginning, he was too late, he was-_

~.~.~.~

He was on top of a bed.

While feeling the sheets with his scarred claws, both of Laurence's eyelids slowly came open. The room was embroiled with the quiet sound of scribbling. In the corner of the room, an elderly hare transcribed notes. Tending to another patient just a few beds down was a hedgehog.

"Where..." croaked Laurence. His throat flared, and the hare's ears shot up.

Laurence tried to pick himself back up with both paws, but his strength failed him. The stitches in his stomach began to lacerate, and the tension in his muscles released.

The hare was by his side. He placed a reassuring paw on the otter's shoulder. "Don't move an inch, lad. Body needs more time to recover."

"What- h-happen..." The coughing racked through his body, the burning sensation imploring him to clear his throat.

"No talking or coughing. Deep vertical cut along the right side of your neck. Trachea was pierced. You'll need t' keep silent if that'll heal properly."

The otter peered at his doctor with wide, hollow eyes. As if the hare could read his mind, the doctor placed his paws behind his back and addressed him.

"You were out cold for five days." He turned his back on Laurence. "Thought for certain you would die from your injuries." Laurence mouthed the word how, and the doctor continued, "Aye. Your fight with the mongoose- heard it was close. Lost only because you loosened your grip."

The last few words prompted an internal howl from the mercenary. The reminder was too painful a cross to bear. Out of fury he lashed out his arms out of fury.

Laurence didn't realize what was going on until it was too late. The feeling of the needle piercing his right arm, and he tried fight back.

Within just a few moments, the hare's face melded into the bright background, and everything faded to black once again.

~.~.~.~

The summer sun _beat down in tandem with the white noises of nature. A company of locusts ceased their thrumming as three wayward souls traveled by their stretch of grass._

 _They headed west, their journey so far unimpeded._

 _For this particular stretch of the trip, Grahan took the lead. Their homeland was far behind the three of them, and neither Fendrel nor Laurence had ever been outside of the kingdom before._

" _How much more walkin' we got here? M' claws are killing me back here," complained Fendrel. "An' another thing- when are we going t' get some grub? It's been a day since our last meal."_

" _Change comes with a price," said Grahan. "And the price of hunger and exhaustion is just a small payment for the journey of a lifetime."_

 _At that, Fendrel took on a different tone, "A'right then, mister adventurer! Since ye seem to know so much about expeditioning, why don't ye enlighten us? How much further until we reach Celcairn?"_

 _Laurence ignored their bickering and kept his eyes forward. Fendrel was just tired, cold and hungry. Laurence was growing ravenous too, but did not want to add fuel to the tiresome discussion. Fendrel and Grahan were not well-acquainted; they were mutual friends of Laurence._

" _Fendrel. I'm hungry too. I'm tired too. But questioning me, the only person who's actually been here in Westward before, is not exactly the brightest idea. So can it, or I'll string you up and hang you out here to dry."_

 _Sure, Grahan made such idle threats so frequently that nobeast took them seriously, but it rubbed Laurence the wrong way. He noticed the momentary quiet and spoke up, "Just a moment... is that Celcairn I can see just up ahead?"_

 _The smith mouse was immediately on the lookout. "Where? I can't see a single thing out there."_

" _Oh. Never mind, it was only a boulder. Sorry, mates."_

" _Ah, so what I'm hearing now, is that we're lost?"_

" _Be quiet, Fendrel."_

 _It was at this point Laurence came to the realization this was a memory. This wasn't real- or rather, it was real, but it was from the past. He did not want to think about the good times._

 _Because once the waterworks start, they're_ like a waterfall.

~.~.~.~

His eyes were open.

But everything was blurry, shapeless. He could not move his body.

Doing his best to subdue the feeling of panic rising within, Laurence used an old method of regaining his senses from childhood and focused his energy on wiggling his index claw.

Finally regaining control the otter turned attention to his other claws on the right paw. From there he was able to move his entire arm and before long his tendons geared up, spine aligned.

In a moment of surprise the mercenary realized there was a scrap of paper sticking to the inside of Laurence's left palm. Pulling it loose, he read the contents:

 _Copeland,_

 _The Whispers tell me of your survival and imminent recovery from injuries sustained in the duel. For now, everybeast in the Crucible thinks you are dead._

 _I have one final favor to ask of you before any future developments can take place- track down and kill the assistant fitch to Cain Seftis- his name is Solomon. More than likely he will be wandering the Upper Office Halls or in the Crucible's Library. Do this for me, and everything will be ready for The Arrival._

 _-V_

There were a lot of potential questions floating in Laurence's mind to the letter. Pertinent questions that had clout, needed answering.

But the reminder of the duel clicked in Laurence's mind, and all the agony came back- and so did the sting of his injuries. Laurence had just come back from near death, and already Vikkars was putting him to work. He did not want to think, he did not want to exist.

Footpaws on the stone floor, the mercenary had to keep himself from falling over. His eyes scanned the shelves in the right corners of the room. Jars of liquid and tablets. Laurence kept his eyes out for the familiar painkillers- papaver, in the smallest container at the top shelf.

Weak claws fumbling for the jar, Laurence was unable to hold it with enough grip and it dropped to the ground. _More glass and glass._ He pocketed several of the tiny papaver branches and consumed one in a single dry gulp.

Blurry eyes became focused, the otter rose to his footpaws in confidence. He could already feel the numbness start to set in. But the memories did not subside with the pain. The otter cursed his recollections and shambled out of the Curatorial Hall and into the adjacent hall.

Where was he going?

Somewhere away from there.

The Crucible halls were uncharacteristically silent like a tomb. Nobeast was in sight. What time of the day was it, anyways?

The chosen path eventually led him to an outside walkway. The night was eerily filled with a rhythmic thrum. Snowfall with the slightest tinge of wind.

Laurence tried opening the door on the other side of the snowy walkway, but it was frozen shut from all the ice. No choice but to backtrack.

Where was he going?

The memories would not leave. The thrumming reverberations of his sword echoed inside of his mind. The otter could feel his hackles rise.

" _No... No. There was nothing I could have done to help."_

Silence.

" _Good intentions or not, he dug his own grave. If I had stayed with him then I would have died too."_

Nothingness.

" _Don't talk to me like that! I know that what I've been doing is wrong. I know that."_

...

"Change? Don't talk to me about change." Laurence bared his teeth. "You changed- look at yourself! Now what is my family going to say? How can ye be a family sword when ye've turned into a freakin' icicle!"

No response.

"...Yeesh. What am I doing, talking to a sword? I need a drink," muttered Laurence.

Eventually the mercenary found himself in the lower levels of the Crucible- and discovered the one place where he knew to get alcohol. The mess hall. This early in the morning, the place was eerily empty.

To Laurence's disappointment, two guards were sitting in wooden seats near the kitchen doors; they looked to be talking about something in earnest. Before Laurence could turn and leave the sentries up and left for unknown reasons.

 _Divine intervention._

He pushed past the slick double doors and kept both eyes peeled for the storage rooms.

After a minute of scanning his surroundings, the clattering sound of pans hitting the stone floor shocked the otter.

Somebeast was in the kitchen with Laurence.

"Who's in here?" he asked before launching into a coughing fit. He clutched the stitches running vertically down his neck, throat embroiled in flaming arcs with each recoil.

Recovering, Laurence looked back up and saw the perpetrator step forward. It was the prisoner weasel from the feast. He was missing the usual smirk on his face- the full weight of the Crucible's situation was finally upon his shoulders, it seemed.

The weasel looked him up and down. "Are you going to report me?"

Laurence saw the weasel's grip tighten around a hefty bottle in his paw. He held up his paws and shook his head. He gestured at the bottle and attempted a smile. "Good choice."

Every word felt like swallowing gravel, but the twitch of the weasel's wide eyes demanded he speak. A moment passed, and the tension seeped from the weasel's shoulders.

"Of course it is. I only choose the best." He walked to a nearby counter, and set about digging a claw into the cork. "...do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar."

 _Does he not remember that night at the feast?_ Laurence pointed at himself. "Frostfang." He winced, holding back a cough and rubbing at his neck. When he looked back up, he saw no recognition in the prisoner's eyes. With a sigh, he amended, "A volunteer."

The weasel snorted, returning his attention to prying the cork free. After he'd ripped the cork down the the bottle's rim, Laurence held out a paw.

"Let me."

The weasel clutched the bottle to his chest, almost as if it was a doll, then slowly held it out. "Fine. Make yourself useful."

Laurence took the bottle and a nearby filing knife. In a single motion, he stabbed into the knotted cork and snapped it free. An enticing fizzle emerged from the bottle, and the weasel snatched it back.

"...what are you doing here in the kitchen, anyway?" the weasel asked. He took no drink of the bottle, but seemed disinclined to offer any to Laurence.

The mercenary pointed at the bottle, then folded his arms. "And why are you-" Again, Laurence was brought to a round of coughing.

"...Same." The weasel set the bottle on the table, tracing a dainty finger around the rim. "I'm due for a reward, after all I've been through. That's what alcohol is for, after all. Rewarding yourself."

Laurence reached deep into his pocket and pulled out another papaver stem. He ate it whole, then stepped to a nearby locked cabinet. From the scratches all along the lock, it was clear the weasel had attempted to break his way into it.

Pulling Sondern free from the sheath on his back, he slammed the heavy hilt down upon the lock. The rusty hinge snapped, and inside revealed a far greater selection of spirits, as well as fine-stemmed glasses. Laurence procured two glasses and returned to the weasel, sliding one across the counter.

"To the victors- the rewards," Laurence choked out, pouring a generous portion into both glasses.

He drank his before the weasel, wincing at the cold trickle down his inflamed neck. _Wine. I hate wine..._ He eyed the glass, then downed the rest.

Across from him, the weasel did everything but drink the wine. Eyed it, held it up, swirled it, sniffed it.

"It won't bite," Laurence said.

"I'm _savoring_ it," the weasel snarled. He hesitated a moment longer, then tilted the glass back. He lurched forward, sputtering and slapping a paw against his chest.

Laurence chuckled, poured another helping for himself and the weasel, then stuck out a paw. "Laurence Copeland."

The weasel scowled at the offered paw, shoulders slouching as he forced the drink down once more. His face twisted as if he sucked on a too-ripe berry, but he made a show of enjoying the wine. "Ander," he said finally, then added ruefully, "the _Awe-Inspiring._ "

Laurence remembered the weasel in a more jovial mood at the feast two weeks earlier. The otter emptied the rest of the bottle, tossed it against the back wall, then retrieved two more.

"I know you," Laurence said. He already felt the warm prickling of the wine doing its work- a heaviness settling on his tongue. It still hurt to speak - that eternal tingle that seared his every breath - but by the moment, it became easier to ignore. "You were always- with that bat-"

Ander moved, tossing his glass to the floor. With a piercing crack, its fragments scattered around the otter's footpaws. " _Don't_ speak of him," Ander snarled, lips peeling back and ears pinning to his head.

Laurence blinked a few times, then uncorked another one of the bottles and slid it towards the weasel. "Have some more."

Ander snatched the bottle, and did just that. After ten straight seconds of chugging, he set the bottle down, an occasional hiccup shaking his form.

"It's not helping," Ander whined, clawing at his head. "It still hurts. Vikkars said it'd stop hurting, but it still _does._ "

Against the falling fog in his mind, Laurence perked at the mention. "Vikkars?" He couldn't help the cough that tore through his trembling throat, but the words grinded out without his control. "You know him?"

Ander sniffed and nodded. "He teaches me things, so long as I help him. How to slit a throat so the blood doesn't get on you. How to hold their snouts shut so they can't scream. How to get rid of those nosy slaves that he wants gone."

Laurence straightened up. "What?"

Ander's entire body shook. His claws squealed against the countertop. "Says I'm a good little servant. Pats me on the head and says 'good job, Ander.' " He slammed a fist down on the countertop. "I hate him! I hate them all!" He fumbled for the bottle once again. "Make it stop. Please make it stop…"

"You're making this up."

The weasel turned on the mercenary. "What do I gain by lying to you?"

The otter made a fist with his paw. Deep within his chest came a rumble, "No... not on my watch. That despicable ferret has gone too far. I'm not going to let that happen-"

" _What a_ _relief it_ _is, t'_ _fi_ _nal_ _ly_ _be here in Celcairn._ _After_ _so_ many days of walking." Fendrel picked up a loaf of bread from the bowl before him and took a huge bite.

Grahan, Fendrel and Laurence were inside of a shoddy tavern. After spending several weeks aimlessly wandering the Westward Kingdom countryside, the trio of starved wanderers were more than happy to rediscover civilization.

In no time at all the adventurers were safely within the port city's borders. Laurence was insisting they hire a guide to show them around the seaside town, with the little money they had. Grahan countered by saying they did not need one. "All part of the adventure," he would say.

Fendrel merely stayed out of their bickering and headed to the nearest tavern. With deliberation, the two otters followed after the smith mouse.

"Sure, I learned a bunch out there, but we'll make good on our new lives here in this place. I could learn to like it here."

Grahan and Laurence glanced at one another, then back at the mouse. "Er... you do know we're supposed to be leavin' Celcairn in a week... you knew that, right?" asked Grahan.

The mouse was in the middle of swigging a container of ale when the question was posed. Fendrel sputtered and dropped the mug. "What do you mean, we're leaving in a week?"

"I mean what I said. We have to leave in a week's time."

"Then- then what was the point of walkin' all the way here? It took us nearly two months to cross the distance!"

Grahan angrily turned to Laurence. "You said you told him what our plans were."

"I did... I said that we were traveling to Celcairn." said Laurence. He was too busy toying with the fabric on his dark jacket to look Grahan in the eyes.

"We don't have any money. Not a single scallion. How are we going to be able to eat- let alone travel anywhere else, if we have no money?" said Fendrel.

"Make ourselves useful around here. Provide services in exchange for goods. For one thing, You can start smithing-"

"Smithing? Smithing!?" Fendrel narrowed his eyes at the otter. "You think I enjoyed smithing? I hated that line of work. M' parents forced me into it. I didn't come all the way out here to start smithing again."

Laurence spoke up again, "Listen to me, mate. It's not about the destination, it's all about the journey there. Aren't you tired of the monotony of routine? Don't you want to get out and explore the world? I certainly want to. Ask yourself- have you truly lived until you have seen everything this life has to offer?"

"Listen here mate, quit calling me Fendrel!" The mouse growled. "My name is Ander! Remember?"

Ander? No. That wasn't right. Fendrel's name was Fendrel. Not Ander.

"May the Fates help us. How we'll find a way to make money so soon, I have no idea." said the mouse as everything started to fade away.

Who was he?

Laurence Copeland. The eldest son of Amadeus Copeland.

And he was back home.

Laurence was sitting at the head of the dinner table.

Shadder, Royen and his Mother filled the other seats. The fifth seat was empty.

Father was missing from the table. Where was Father? The otter soon recalled the horrible tumble down the stairwell. Awful damage to the head, explained the family's medical examiner.

They would say he was waterlogged.

But was it any different than it was before? Father never spoke at the table unless prodded.

Father wasn't there when Laurence was born into the world, or for Laurence's first swim, or when he was personally honored by the King of Helmsford himself.

Laurence never spent any time with him. Not until the great war. Even still, their time together was always limited and never intimate. Always speaking about the mission objective, the body counts, of the jobs to be finished. Always a foxhole's length away. Even when he was present, he was never really there.

Did Father not care about him? Not love him?

The young and impressionable Royen was staring at something on Laurence's chest.

Laurence looked down. He was wearing his old Eastborne Army uniform. There was an emblem in the shape of a lightning bolt pinned to his tunic, just above the heart. The official Eastborne Army Commander's black tippet tucked under his collar.

This was his last evening in the Copeland Estates.

"They will be expecting you at the city gates early tomorrow morning. After dinner I want you heading straight to bed. No reading, no cartographing. Understood?"

Laurence nodded. He might not have planned on following his mother's orders, but he knew things would go far better if he played along than speak out.

"And remember, address everybeast you meet tomorrow with a sir or ma'am. You might be the highest ranking army official in Eastborne now, but that doesn't give you the right to do away with common courtesies. Understood?"

Again he nodded. The room was so quiet, Laurence could hear the faint chewing from everybeast's mouth.

The eldest son steepled his claws and gazed in the direction of the empty placard over the fireplace. In that moment of time it had been seven years since his father's brother, Welford Copeland, lost the family sword in the great war.

The same Copeland who explored the entire continent from northward to southward, westward to east, all before finally settling down. Laurence's father Amadeus never ceased to be amazed by his elder brother's exploits.

Could it be that his father regretted having cubs so young? That he regretted not seeing the world first and foremost? His mother said something to him in that moment, but Laurence did not hear it before, and so the words were lost forever.

Staring into the fire below. Watching the logs turn into ash. That was the moment- the moment Laurence decided that he was going to run away from home.

Either everything flew upwards, or the mercenary fell through the floor. Suddenly he was standing on a stone floor. Back leaning against a wooden wall. The wall was caved in, the door of the building hanging by a hinge.

Fendrel and Grahan's haggard faces were facing out a window. When their friend started, the the mouse faced him again.

"Not a single bite of food between the three o' us, and nobeast to give us an honest day of work the entire time since we came here," muttered Fendrel.

"You know why that is, don't you?" inquired Laurence. Without waiting on a response, he continued, "The Westwarders are sympathetic to the Stagorian's cause. They supported them in the war instead of us, you know. Not all public-like, but on the sly."

Grahan stared out the window with an expression of stoicism. "The moment we have enough coin, we take to the docks and find a ship willing to take us to foreign lands. I've had my fill of this place. Enough for a lifetime."

"We should have fared better saving up our money. Should have rationed our spending," said Laurence, shaking his head.

"How were any of us t' know it would end up like this, eh? Who knew these Westwarders were so... anti-Eastborne?"

The unflappable Grahan stood to his footpaws. "I'm going out to search for work. We are close to finding something, I can feel it."

Laurence and Fendrel watched him leave with heavy-lidded eyes. Their stomachs gnawed at them in every waking moment now. The otter felt physically weak and emotionally drained. There was no escape from the powerful hunger, not even in sleep.

The otter recalled that only hours before this memory, he was brought into wakefulness not by another creature or from enough rest. But starvation.

"Laurence. Matey." The mercenary turned his attention to the gaunt mouse before him. "What do you say we... hit up the town?"

"I don't understand."

Fendrel licked his cracked lips. "Mate. Think about it..."

Everything clicked at once for the otter. "You mean to steal." The mouse only nodded in reply. "Well, then. I will not stop you. But don't expect me to help."

The affirmation was all the former smith needed. He picked himself up and left the dilapidated shack.

His friend's lack of self-discipline was understandable. Fendrel was not present at the frontlines of the great war. He was not there at the Siege of Darkfall. He didn't spend an entire month living in the trenches with nothing to eat but earthworms and blades of grass.

Laurence sat there with his back against the wooden wall for an unknown amount of time. The light from the window intensified and receded.

He was on the verge of succumbing to sleep when the sounds of yelling and roars from nearby brought him back to attention. The shack doors were kicked open with such force that the otter leapt with shock.

Fendrel faced his friend with wide eyes, a great burlap sack in his paws. "I made a huge mistake, mate. We gotta skip town. _Now._ "

"What did you-" The sack landed at Laurence's footpaws. Apples and pears rolled onto the floor. But there was something else in the bag... "You stole somebeast's arms? What is wrong with you, Fendrel?"

"I- it- we could sell those weapons out on the road for a hefty price! Look at the make on them. That's a fine steel they're made of- damascus steel. Do ye know how rare that type of metal is?"

A knock on the door. The last creature to be told a dark secret walked through the frame.

"What's all the ruckus? And why is there a crowd of villagers gathering outside?" said Grahan. His eyes surveyed the room. "You stole goods from the townsfolk."

Fendrel fumbled for the right words to say as Grahan began fuming. "Y-you don't understand. They left us with no- no choice-"

"Quiet down, Fendrel!" roared Grahan. It grew uncomfortably quiet outside as the otter continued, "I've had enough of your antics. I'm returning all of this to the villagers and when I am done talking to them you are going _beg_ for their forgiveness. Do you hear me, smith?"

The mouse only sighed. Grahan took that as a yes. "Laurence, I want you to keep an eye on him while I go and return these belongings. Don't go anywhere you two."

Laurence turned to Fendrel when their friend was gone. "That was a terrible decision, Fendrel. It's one thing to steal food to survive, but somebeast's personal belongings as well?"

A harsh yelling from outside caught the attention of the two vagrants. They both huddled by the single window in the shack and watched helplessly as their friend Grahan was surrounded by the mob of villagers. Screams cut across the cloudless sky as the crowd brought a swift justice down on their victim.

Without any hesitation the two remaining foreigners turned and fled out of the broken door frame, away from the brutal scene and away from vengeance.

He was in a ditch.

Laurence's eyes crept upward into the night above. The full moon was the single refuge from unabated darkness.

To his right were two Eastborne soldiers. One was covered in a multitude of blood and sleeping peacefully. The second was trembling from ears to tail, uttering a prayer to the Fates for protection.

Another hail of arrows. The majority flew straight past their foxhole. A few peppered the ground between the trio.

The second soldier was struck, his death coinciding with the final verse of the prayer.

This was the night Laurence made his last kill in the war. This was the week before the end of the war, and a week before Laurence lost all direction in his life.

A battle cry rang out into the air, and Laurence picked himself out of the foxhole. Battle sword at the ready, he charged toward the fortress engulfed in flames with the rest of the squad. Inside there were only broken enemies to greet them, fleeing in every direction to escape their comeuppance.

He locked swords with the only able-bodied enemy in the foyer. The two danced close and away. He jabbed his blade and landed a hit, the rest was going to be history-

Darkness again.

Laurence's eyes slowly drifted open.

Everything was blurry and sideways. His head was pounding- like somebeast was relentlessly dropping bricks right onto his brain. The feeling of cold metal against his right paw.

Facing away from the light Laurence refocused his vision and felt the structure before him. _Wooden._ He was underneath a wooden desk. A sharp knife was in his claws, one that did not belong to him.

He looked back toward the painful rays and through them the surroundings: shelves lined with books collecting dust, a giant map of Marshank and nearby territories, numerous broken weapons and tattered sigils hanging on the walls.

 _By the Fates... This is Cain's Office... I was trying to kill Cain!_

With what little strength he could muster, Laurence pathetically crawled toward the slanted exit. Once at the door, he used one of his paws to bring the door fully open. Before he could, the door careened open and banged him in the face.

Stars and dots flooded his vision. Strange voices filled his ears while he muffled the howls of pain.

"Blimey! See 'im, Cap'n? From Hellgates 'isself! It's th' Frostfang!" came one voice. "He was makin' such a ruckus in his sleep we could hear 'im from ousside!"

A familiar voice: "Excellent work, you two. I'm glad you came to me first with this... dilemma. I am."

His vision returned, and he saw a pair of bluejackets- a colossal sea otter and a grizzled mouse. Standing behind them with his weapon drawn was Captain Wimmick.

The mercenary started to pick himself up. The mouse pointed a knobby claw at him while backing up. "He's gettin' up, lookit!"

The enormous otter named pelted him in the back of the skull with the flat of his spear.

"He must have been trying to slay Lord Seftis. Place him in chains and take him to The Drag. We'll show him what happens to assassins here."

Laurence was in too weak of a condition to fight back. He merely accepted his new fate.

The two bluejackets chained up his arms and footpaws before hoisting him up. Before they could take him away the new officer spoke again.

Laurence watched as the rat tail before his eyes darted to and fro with intensity, "Listen... I really do appreciate the forthright behavior. When you're done dropping him off- you have my permission to end your sentry shifts early."

"Aye, Cap'n! With pleasure!"

The two guards dragged him roughly to the lower levels of the Crucible.

On the way to their destination, Laurence could distinctly hear the muttering and whispers of the Marshank aristocrats. _They thought I was dead. They thought I should have died._

The mouse bluejacket's harsh whispers were uncomfortably close to his left ear. "I lost a bet thanks t' you. Coulda made so much money on yore win, and then ya went an' lost. I'll make sure that ya get what's comin' t' ya afore this week is over."

Finally they were upon The Drag.

Laurence forced himself to lift up his head. He could see endless lines of cages, filled with familiar faces new and old. A couple of the prisoners he recognized immediately- the stoat with a twisted view on fate- a bloodied hedgehog wearing a torn bluejacket coat- and next to an empty cell was the Prisoner King himself. Drugaen Vikkars, sleeping peacefully on a cot.

With a complete lack of care, the two tossed him into the cell beside Vik's and closed the door. The sea otter muttered something that brought forth a laugh from the elderly mouse while they shambled away from the prison quarters.

The mere sight of the ferret brought a flurry of emotions within Laurence. Relief, anger, sadness, confusion.

" _He teaches me things, so long as I help him. How to slit a throat so the blood doesn't get on you. How to hold their snouts shut so they can't scream."_

In the corner of the Prisoner King's cell was a big, sharp rock. Perfectly shaped to fit in one's paw. As quietly as he could with the chains on his arms and footpaws, Laurence inched over to the side of the bars and pressed himself against them.

Using his good paw he gripped the stone, and brought his arm back. Laurence had a perfect shot lined up on the ferret's skull. All he had to do was throw, and he would be rid of him for good.

Drugaen Vikkars stirred from his sleep. He gave a yawn before turning to face the new arrival.

"I knew it would only be a matter of time before you joined us down here." The ferret leaned back against his cot and gave an unsettling leer. "I wonder what prompted them to finally bring you down here?"

The rock fell from Laurence's grasp with a solid thud. "I didn't kill that fitch like you wanted me to."

"You told me that already."

Laurence felt a cold sweat forming. "...How do you know that?"

"Doesn't surprise me that you forgot already. You were so many drinks in at that point, I'm shocked you still know who I am or what species you are. We ran into each other in the halls just outside the Crucible arena. The whole time you swore up and down about how you weren't going to slay the fitch and how I should rethink my life choices."

The mercenary stared at the ferret, and a chill ran down his spine at the horrible realization. _He's not wearing any chains._

"There was nobeast around. I thought about killing you right then and there, perhaps put a stop to your bumbling antics. But then I realized there was one last purpose you could serve. Something that not even you could screw up."

Laurence glanced at the cell's door. _There's no lock on his door._ "And what would that be?"

The ferret leaned back and propped his arms under his head. "The one thing you are the best at doing... serving up a distraction. In your sorry state last night, all I had to do was ask you to make an attempt on Cain's life. And now here you are. Twenty-four hours from now, a group of guards will come and take you away from the Crucible to be killed. Don't bother resisting. It'll be for naught."

His head reeled from the words. Laurence sought company with the one friend who had always been there for him. But after feeling for the weapon always strapped his back, he realized that Sondern was no longer there.

Slowly descending to the stone floor, the otter clutched his face in both paws as the weight of his situation hit him in full force. He was a slave now, and Sondern was gone.

All of his hopes in changing the Crucible for the better amounted to nothing.


	33. After the Fall

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **After the Fall**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _In the cold dark of the Crucible's cellars, Bechtel died._

 _You may call it reckless of me to use such phrasing, as I have before, but it is no exaggeration of prose that compelled my wording. He had been put to death, and the life he now lived was a tenuous thing indeed, for reason had left him._

 _The scars of that night lasted very long. I don't know if they ever healed._

 _~.~.~.~_

The candles descended, the shadows feasted, and they were gone. Hours ago.

Days. Weeks. Days.

Taken to their judgment, to be thrust into the cleansing fire of sunlight. Somewhere above him, the roar of the crowd rose, and the beasts fell.

Yet the penance of blood did not find him, though he yearned for it. Justice's paw did not seize him, though he called for it. Even the candles ceased, leaving only the dark. He considered that perhaps this was his punishment, reserved only for him. The work of some great behemoth, sinking their mighty claws into the soil to rip this place for its moorings, then plunging it. Deep and deeper into the deepest depths until it bordered the realm of mortal and eternal, where no candle or light could find him.

He attempted a click, but only managed a hoarse cough.

 _Empty,_ they told him. _Empty as always, but for the staircase winding up, up, up…_

Bechtel sagged against the frost-festered stone. The cold no longer bothered him, nor the churn of his stomach—only the stairs, the infinite steps that returned to the land of light and pain. He wished to return, only so that he may apologize. Perhaps justice would find him then, when his influence no longer pained others.

Sleep found him, but no rest.

Darkness. Faded memories of light.

Dreams. The stairs calling to him.

Visions. The silence scurrying away.

Flicker. The shadows screamed at the intruder. The frost burned beneath its advance.

Clank. The jingle of iron and the squeal of possibilities and anticipation.

Screech. The pull of steel from its home.

Speech. "Lookit you. You couldn't do anything even if you wanted."

Snort. "Not sure why he bothers. You'll be dead in a day or two."

The vision stepping closer. Bechtel blinked the crusted rime from his eyes, beholding the vague shifting before him. He saw more than darkness. Saw the flash metal raised. Felt the steadying paw hold him.

Blood. Warmth. The gasp of a life ended early.

Weight. Air. Nothing left to breathe.

Darkness deepening.

Suddenly, the weight disappeared. A rush of air and the dull thud of something rolled off him and onto the stone. Bechtel inhaled deeply of the cold air. The fog in his mind faded, though still everything hung at the edge of his senses.

"Knew she weren't never up t' any good," a second voice spoke. One Bechtel distantly recognized, though neither as friend or foe.

He managed a weak cough. _A dying squirrel beside you, a short sword limp in their clutching paws. Above, a rat with a blood-slicked knife. Both wearing the garb of the Crucible._

"Welp, that'll be that, then. Up'n at 'em, mate. We'd best leave afore someone comes t' lookin' fer missy 'ere."

Confusion slowed him, but Bechtel attempted to stand up. He managed to place a leg beneath him before waves of fog crashed into him, sending him back to the stone.

"Cor… yer really out of it, aint'cha?"

He felt paws wrap around his waist, then weightlessness. He wondered if this was justice, finally come. Wondered when the noose would grasp his neck.

"Welp," the rat strained somewhere beneath his weightless body, "Whip says yer right important, so I guess I'll have t' drag you outta here meself."

The cell fell away behind him. The shadows grasped, but shrunk from the flicker emanating from the rat's free paw.

Up the stairs they went. Up, up, and yet further up.

The realm of darkness and distance vanished away as the rat carried the bat once more to the mortal plane. And as the light and pain returned, Bechtel slipped once more into unconsciousness.

 _~.~.~.~_

Warmth. He felt it first, penetrating through the cold that still lay burrowed within his skin. It tore at the heavy darkness that rested over him. Like pulling a blanket tighter, Bechtel willed the warmth to cease, to return to the numbness of the shadows.

Then, piercing through the folds of darkness, he saw light. Brighter than any candle or memory, it parted the dark with an authority the warmth lacked. Still, Bechtel resisted its call.

Like a crack of thunder, a wave of pain swelled across Bechtel. He shot upright with a cry, the folds of sleep slipping from him at once.

Gone were the stones and frost, replaced by weathered wood, thick pillows, and swollen blankets. He lay upon a small cot - clearly meant for a beast of wingless means - in a tiny, undecorated room. An empty chair rested by his cot, and the only other furnishings the room boast was a modest-but-sturdy desk, where a lantern offered its glow. A door stood at the opposite wall, the crevice underneath cushioned so that no sound could escape it.

Seconds passed in numb confusion. He did not belong here. He knew it in his heart, despite what the echoes told him. He felt a piece of himself missing, as sure as flesh torn from his side. The dungeon dark still loomed within his heart, a cold untouched by warmth or light. Perhaps there he remained, his judgment come nigh. The vision of the guards, the blood, and the journey up the stairs—nothing more than dream and delusion. Death had been close in the dungeon—perhaps now, it grew closer.

Despite his thoughts, Bechtel withdrew a claw from the pile of blankets to rub at his throbbing forehead. His insides felt like mud trampled over by too many beasts, and his brow burned at the touch. He clicked once more to see if the echoes lied to him, then his attention focused on his wing.

The wilted, discolored length of membrane on his wing was stitched with knitting thread, sewn in irregular patterns. Nowhere near the precision or care of Truson's paw, but a tangible change all the same.

This was no dream.

His ears flicked up as he heard the click of the doorknob turn. He smelled the musk of grizzled fur, dwarfed instantly by the overwhelming spice of warm food. A rat entered, grasping a bowl of steaming soup. The beast wore simple garb—overalls, a mud-tapped shirt, and a frayed bandana. Despite the lack of uniform, Bechtel immediately recognized him as the same rat from the dungeon.

" 'Bout time you woke up," the rat muttered, stirring a spoon in the soup as he dragged the chair to Bechtel's bedside and sat down.

Bechtel's mouth watered. Ginger and parsley and broth - things reduced to memory in the Crucible - now tempted his nostrils with every breath. He snorted, turning his face away. No, he didn't deserve this. Wherever he was, the beasts in the Crucible still suffered. He could not partake of—

"Agh, open yer gob already." The rat reached forward, pinched the sides of Bechtel's mouth open, then jabbed the spoon in. Bechtel sputtered, but the rat tilted his head up, the rich liquid and softened vegetables easing their way down his throat.

Against weak resistance, the rat continued ladling hearty portions. When the bowl lay half-empty, Bechtel worked up the energy to thrust his face from the rat's grasp. He coughed, soiling the blankets with bits of soup.

"Now lookit what you did." The rat set the bowl on the desk and pulled his bandana from his neck to dab up the spots on the blanket.

The throb of his head deepened, and Bechtel sank further into his pillows. Amid the myriad of questions raging in his mind, he mustered the strength to ask only one, "Why?"

"Eh? Why what?"

His words flowed like molasses, against the tightness of his neck. Bechtel strained to speak, "Last night… Why save me?"

The rat blinked, then leaned back and let loose a howl of laughter. " _Last night?_ Mate, you been under for three days! Didn't think you was gonna make it, but Cap'n never doubted once." He tossed the now-soiled bandanna onto the desk. "Hope yer worth it. 'Tween you an' the murders goin' on, I ain't seen the sun in three days."

"That'll be enough, Gromo."

Both beasts turned their attention to the large rat standing in the doorframe. This one wore common clothing as well, but no amount of wrinkled and mud-tapped fabric could hide the military beast beneath. The scarred brow curved perpetually downwards, the rigid paws and posture ready at a moments notice, the voice that spoke only when necessary—Bechtel recognized each, and felt an old prickle of fear course over him. Captain Whip of the Crucible stood before them, and his presence answered a great many questions.

"I need a few moments alone with this one," Whip said.

"Er, aye, Cap'n. Just gimme a holler if he gives ya trouble." Gromo dipped his head in submission, then left, shutting the door behind him.

Whip did not move. Bechtel clicked to be sure, but still the rat remained, paws folded behind his back as his eyes bore into Bechtel. Finally, his gaze flicked away to the bowl.

"Not to your liking?"

Bechtel said nothing, and this time, let the world fade from his vision. He heard heavy steps approach, the scrape of the chair twisted around, then the groaning sigh as Whip settled down.

"I don't like speaking, but I know you have questions. I will keep this simple: this is not kindness, you are not free, and you are more important than you think."

Bechtel's brow twitched.

"I didn't expect you to understand." The creak of the chair as Whip shifted his weight. "This is the agreement I can offer you, bound by the honor of a marshbeast: I will kill you if you try to run, I will not lie to you, and if you help me, then I can guarantee your freedom."

Curiosity whispered to him, and provoked a click from his tongue. He saw Whip's paw outstretched, and on it, a hammer-forged key. The collar about his neck seemed to tighten, and for a moment, he considered lashing out take it and secure his freedom. Familiar promises whispered to him, of forgetfulness, of wandering, of buried truth.

"No!" The roar tore through his raw throat at the presence of the desire. Bechtel drove his claws into his scalp. "I can't! I won't! I've hurt too many beasts."

Whip snorted and wrenched his claws from his head. "Calm your nerves, bat. I'm not asking you to turn on your messmates. It's Hale I'm after."

Bechtel blinked back tears. "…what?"

"You've missed a lot since your time in the dig." His whiskers twitched, but with a resigned sigh, he continued, "As I'm sure you've noticed, we're not in the Crucible, and I don't look like the Captain of the Guard. That's because I'm not anymore." His expression soured. "After Hale's sudden discovery of your friends' whereabouts, the blame for the escape fell to me. I got a boot to my tail. My whimpering deputy got my job.

"Since then, Hale's been busy clearing the table of anything related to that escape. Your friends? Thrown to the arena before they're questioned. Their mystery benefactor? A pile of letters conveniently found in a noble's house and the beast is hanged immediately. That uppity otter who fought that night? Taken with others - including Hale's favorite stoat - to be killed in the marshes." He snarled, fur hackling about his neck. "This is not the Crucible's justice. Hale has overstepped his bounds. I just need to prove it."

Bechtel thought back to prior night. Or, rather, the last night he remembered. "...the guard. They were sent to kill me."

Whip relaxed, though no mirth found his face. "Smart boy. Hale wants you dead, but I got to you first. Took the last bit of influence I had in the Crucible to pull it off, but I managed it." He leaned forward. "Somewhere in that brain of yours, you know something Hale wants buried. Something he _fears._ You're going to tell me what it is." A ghost of a smile breached his lips. "I know you don't like me. Frankly, I don't give Vulpuz' backside what you think of me. So just consider this a job, and me your boss."

Bechtel tensed. The promises whispered once more, a familiar road stretching before him, wandering ever onward. "No," he said, vehemence gritting his tone. The key still in Whip's paw only deepened his resolve. "You should have let me die."

Whip's expression remained pleasant. He slipped the key into his jerkin, then clasped a paw around Bechtel's shoulder. "I'm asking nicely, but I _will_ get the answers I'm looking for." He squeezed, claws piercing through fur and flesh. "I can make this hurt much, much worse."

Gritting his teeth, Bechtel leaned into the cut of the claws. "Not nearly enough."

Whip continued to squeeze, and though the pain sent fresh waves of nausea cutting through Bechtel, the bat refused to flinch. He deserved this, and so much more. If this new road offered only pain, he would bear it to its end.

Spots speckled his vision. His throat burned with bile. Then the pain suddenly stopped.

He fell back, sucking in sharp breaths through his teeth. He felt blood trickle down his shoulder, staining the pillows behind him.

"You mean it," Whip muttered.

The quiet echoes issued from his breath spoke of horror upon the rat's face, an expression so foreign Bechtel did not believe it. Then he heard the crash of the chair striking the ground, the roar of the former captain, and the slam of a fist upon wood.

"Damn you, beast! I've offered you your freedom! What more could you possibly want?"

"Justice!" Bechtel cried, voice broken and laden by the strain of illness. "Justice for the beasts I've hurt! Justice for the beasts in the Crucible! Justice for all the wrongs that I can't fix!"

" _Justice?_ " Whip let loose a deep-throated laughter. "Boy, why do you think the Crucible found you? It _is_ Justice! No one who enters that arena is innocent, no matter what they tell you."

Something flared within Bechtel—an old spark rekindled. "And you are? How many lives have you ruined? How much blood did it take to earn you your jacket?"

"My paws are cleansed by that blood. I stand _justified,_ " Whip snarled. "You think it's murder, Hale thinks it's theater. Selfish fools! The both of you! Neither of you have the eyes to see the truth. The Crucible calls those who hear, and they always come. It will judge and purify this world by blood." He stood taller, a proud severity settling over his features. "I am its mortal instrument. There is _no_ greater responsibility."

Bechtel struggled for words in the fog of his mind. "That's… that's not—"

He bent down so that his bared teeth lay inches from Bechtel's face."You're the same as them all. Full of excuses. If you have the bravery to be honest, you know you deserve death."

Bechtel flinched. Whip seized his collar and forced his gaze to lock.

"Consider your use, and the opportunity you have. I am the only beast with the _right_ to set you free, but my patience does not last forever."

The door creaked open and Gromo stuck his head in. "Er, Cap'n? I heard yellin'. Everythin' okay?"

Whip shoved Bechtel back to the bed and turned. "Clean him up," he said, pushing past the smaller rat.

Gromo glanced between the two, then focused on the blood. "Blimey, what'd you say to him?"

 _The truth,_ Bechtel meant to say, but the words didn't come. Gromo shrugged, then pulled a rag from his overalls and set to work cleaning the blood from Bechtel's shoulder. All the while, Whip's words repeated in his mind.

He found he could not argue against them. Ever since his arrival in Marshank, he'd felt it—a rising inability to run from things he'd lost to the past. It had been years since memories of Atrus haunted him, yet in Marshank they crept along the edge of every thought. He'd focused on Ander, on Molly, on escaping, on anything to keep the memories and guilt at bay, but his legs had given out, and he could run no longer.

Whip was right. He deserved to die.

However, the thought that every slave stood rightly condemned by the Crucible… It sickened him. And yet he could not deny the plausibility. Who was he to judge the righteousness of those within the Crucible's halls, when he himself only now realized his own faults?

He'd heard it said that justice was blind. Like his echoes sought the form of things, justice sought the truth. The truth, however, was never promised to be a thing of comfort.

Gromo finished cleaning the blood, applied a bandage, then swept his way out of the room. The door shut, and Bechtel heard it lock, leaving him only with the flickering lantern light and his wayward thoughts.

Gone was the simplicity of fireside fables. Gone was the ease of a world split into stark shades. Gone was the understanding and the ignorance. He did not know what was left. Despite the Crucible's justice, injustice still met him at every turn.

Molly's false words, leading their believers to death. A noblebeast's blood shed on the streets. Laurence and Tope – so misjudged by Bechtel – silenced without dignity. Ander – hopeful Ander – broken and cast back to the sands of the Crucible.

The thought drove his claws to his scalp. Despite Whip's words, despite his fears, despite the Crucible's call, he _knew_ that Ander would be free if it was not for him. Yet here he stood, free of the horror, with an offer to leave it all behind.

He wished he could return. He wished he could rip his every word from the air, to seal his throat shut, to live a blinded life and die alone, if only to return that hope to his friend. Any price would be a fair bargain, for it was not the call of the Crucible that doomed Ander, but him, and him alone.

He pulled the claws from his head. Stared at the shut door. Considered the rat's offer once more. Saw the key offered out.

He set his jaw and flung the blankets off.

 _~.~.~.~_

The fluttering air whistled through the gap in Gromo's teeth as he stirred the pot set inside the hearth. He tasted the liquid, smacked his lips in approval, then ladled a generous helping into the bowl. He went for a second then stopped, recalling with a frown the bat's stubbornness the night before.

Captain Whip's covert hideaway within Marshank offered little in the way of room and comfort, but its stock of spices and produce shamed even the Crucible's larder. Before the "dark days," as Gromo had taken to calling them, he'd occasionally sneak here just so he could experiment with the seasonings.

"Dunno what's good fer 'im, that 'un," Gromo huffed, setting the ladle back.

He held out the bowl and eyed the spoon suspended on the counter's edge. He flicked his tail and the spoon went flying in a high arc. He winced as a splatter of hot soup struck his face and shirt.

He blinked an eye open to check for the captain's stern disapproval, but the beast was nowhere to be found. A proud smile spread across his face, and he swaggered his way across the room to the captain's quarters – now repurposed as the recovery room for their guest.

Stuffing a paw in his pocket, he retrieved a key and unlocked the door.

"Wakey wakey, batty, I got yer—"

As the door swung open, Gromo stopped, then stared wide-eyed.

The cot lay a scattered mess, pillows and blankets strewn across the floor. The bat sat hunched by the desk, grinding his claw into its surface. He glanced up at the rat.

"Breakfast?" he asked, voice hazy.

Gromo stammered for a response. The bat looked like the waking dead, eyes still red, a drip of something green rimming his nostrils, and a slight tremor coursing over his body. Of course, "waking dead" was a vast improvement over the prior night's "almost-certainly dead."

"Er, yeah… You, uh, you want me to—"

The bat reached out and took the bowl. Despite the tremble of his grip, he tilted it back at once and slurped at the contents noisily.

Gromo's attention flicked to the desk. Scores of odd symbols lay carved into the wood. Gromo knew his way the scrawl of commanding officers, but the letters inscribed here looked like no words he recognized.

A clatter turned his attention back to the bat, then to the empty bowl.

"Huh… what? I thought—"

"Go fetch Whip. Tell him I'm ready to make a deal." The bat held out the bowl. "And bring more. It's good."

"Would you mind explaining why you've ruined my desk?"

Bechtel steadied himself against the rat's twitching frown and growl of a breath. A severity radiated from the former captain, wordlessly declaring that there would be no further trifling with him. The surrounding silence only emphasized this, with Gromo having been sent off to scout the city streets and "prepare the faithful."

"It's what you want." Bechtel gestured at the desk. "Everything I know, from my arrival to now."

Whip approached slowly and studied the carvings. His scowl deepened. "...you've encoded it."

Bechtel attempted a dry chuckle, then doubled over in a series of wet, hacking coughs. His insides churned, his body burned, and even blinking sent waves of nausea shuddering down his spine. He ignored the fits, focusing solely on the rat. "Not encoded." His voice sounded like paws ripping through petrified mud. "I don't know how to write. But I can translate."

Whip's tail flicked dangerously behind him. "Why the change of heart? What about your justice?"

Through the blight and blear of his vision, Bechtel met the rat's gaze. "This _will_ be justice. Justice for me, and what I've done, but—" He pressed a claw to his chest, flinching against the swirl within him.

Whip whiskers twitched, and he folded his arms. "What's the price?"

"A weasel. Ander. He came with me on Tiltsnout's—"

"I know who he is. The violinist. Played a great tune, then stole from me the second he had the chance." He furrowed his brow. "What about him?"

"I'll tell you everything. I'll help you take down Hale. I'll come back to the Crucible, and I'll fight until I die. But you'll let Ander go free."

Whip held his gaze, then set about pacing. He stroked at his chin, his withering expression never once breaking. As time wore on, panic mingled with the pull of disease in Bechtel's chest.

"Y-You said you have the right to free someone. You said it," he said. "I deserve to die. Ander can't deserve any worse than me, so let me pay for his freedom. You can do that, can't you?"

Whip turned his attention to the bat. "I could free or kill any of those beasts, and the Crucible would will it." He clasped his paws behind him. "But I offered you _your_ freedom. Why throw it away for this one beast?"

"Because it's my fault. Maybe you're right, and every beast in the Crucible belongs there, but I _kept_ Ander there. I promised him I'd owe him, and instead I just—" He braced himself against the table, another fit shaking him in a series of wet coughs. Drawing in a wheezing breath, he continued, "I failed him. If I can fix my mistake, then I'll pay whatever price I have to."

A curious expression won over the severity of the rat's brow. He spoke with a shrug, "A life for a life sounds fair to me. I accept your offer, bat. I just hope you know what it is you've let go."

Bechtel winced, from the pain in his chest, and the answer in his heart: _Nothing important._

Whip walked to the cot, sat down, and clasped his paws. "Begin, then. Tell me everything."


	34. Snow Brigade

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Snow Brigade**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

When Laurence was moved into The Drag that morning, he expected the same cold shoulder just like his first time visiting the quarters. But much to his surprise, all the slaves greeted him warmly and with much respect.

Outside in the arena, he served as their representative; the reminder to all the aristocrats and commoners who attended the tourney matches- that these were indeed living creatures they were betting their wages on. Now he was one of them, on the inside looking out.

All of the prisoners in the nearest cells whispered their gratitudes and respects. A squirrel named Dain two cells down would not stop raving about how much it meant to him to meet Frostfang in the flesh. Laurence might not have looked it, but he was having the time of his life in the prison.

That night Laurence slept better than he did for his entire time at the Windy Bastion.

He found himself the next morning roughly forced awake by a pair of bluejacket guards. The mercenary blearily took stock of his surroundings: outside of his cell were more bluejackets, and Cain Seftis himself.

They forcefully brought the otter before the wildcat and into a kneeling posture.

"Frostfang. I hadn't the slightest suspicion that we would be meeting again under these circumstances. But I suppose it's true that life really is full of twists and turns." Cain began inspecting the rest of the prisoners in their cells. "Take that one, him, him, her, that one, that one..."

As the Lord of the Crucible pointed to each prisoner, the squad of bluejackets unlocked their cells and dragged them out beside the Frostfang. Tope Benwrath, the former bluejacket hedgehog and a couple other prisoners were lined up alongside him. Vikkars was conspicuously missing from his cell.

"Where is the Prisoner King?" growled Cain with annoyance, his tail twitching. "He's supposed to be going with the rest of them."

"He's in the old armory. He is supposed to be fighting in the tourney today, m'lord. "

The lord turned to his two escorts. "Rickart and Ingward. Go wait outside decompression chambers and pick up the Prisoner King when his match in the arena is finished. Then link up with Ansley and the others at the outer walls, outside of Marshank Village."

A long metal chain was looped through each of the small gaps in the shackles around their legs. All the prisoners were connected together.

Cain snapped his claws. "Ansley." Much to Laurence's surprise, the familiar stoat stepped forward from the blue mass and nodded. "Seeing as the Frostfang was your mistake, perhaps you would like a chance to clean up the mess you made?"

The stoat's head bobbed up and down. "A-aye, m'lord. I would like nothin' more-"

"Right then. Take five others with you and escort these prisoners to the Proving Grounds. Don't come back to the Crucible until each prisoner has proven themselves."

Pupils dilated. In the blink of an eye, they were back to routine. "Aye, m'lord. As you say."

Cain departed from the lower levels without another word.

The going end up being tough; several times Laurence or one of the other slaves tripped on the abundance of chains and held up the rest of the party. And every single time, the slavers in charge pummeled the ones responsible.

Laurence noted with surprise the pathway they took toward the Hall of Champions wasn't exactly the most straightforward; instead of heading down public access hallways or common routes the slavers led them through the upper office halls and down several flights of stairs. _They're hiding us from all the frequent arena spectators... their paying customers wouldn't take too kindly to seeing fan favorites in the tourney killed off._

Waiting for hours at the bottom of the stairwell. Waiting until the next match of the tournament started in the afternoon, and all of the patrons and aristocrats filled up the arena seats.

"Them audience members don't know it yet, but that's the last tourney match o' this season's Elders Pyre." Ansley gave a chuckle and nudged the nearest bluejacket. "I'm glad that I ain't the one to tell all o' them th' bad news. Poor luck for Wimmick, ha har!"

Once they were certain nobeast was hanging around the Hall of Champions, the slavers corralled the group towards the giant double doors.

Outside of the Crucible, the weather was bright and sunny, hardly a cloud in the sky. The cold and damp air felt good in Laurence's lungs; after spending so much time inside the hot, humid Drag, the cold was a welcome change of pace.

Right about then, Laurence noticed the young stoat called Tope followed after him in the chain gang. The otter whispered to the familiar face. "Benwrath, right? Where are they taking us? What are the 'Proving Grounds'?"

"Dunno, mate. Never heard of them till now-"

"Quiet back there!" roared one of the bluejackets. Laurence recognized them as the old mouse who escorted him from Cain's Office yesterday. The soldier paced over to the back of the chain gang and punched Tope square in the jaw. "Not another word, or else!"

The stoat gave a fierce cough and spat out a wad of blood. Laurence mumbled an apology before falling silent.

Ice crunching at their footpaws abated the sound of nothingness as Ansley led the party out and away from the Crucible- and toward the vast, crumbling walls that encircled all of Marshank Settlement.

The party finagled around the side of the settlement, instead of walking through. As best he could Laurence angled his head to face the Crucible fortress behind him. The walls still stood fast, they looked even more menacing than they did on his arrival.

Something caught the mercenary's eyes. Far above, on top of the Crucible parapets: a dark figure was watching their departure. The billowing strands from a once-proud cape, the sheen of blood decorating their drawn weapon, the reflection of light coming from the top of their head. Drugaen Vikkars.

Laurence and the figure locked stares for at least a minute before he felt the cold prickle of a spearpoint against his back. "Keep movin' forward, scum."

~.~.~.~

 _The smell of salt in the air, the harsh voices of all seafarers on deck. Laurence and his friend Fendrel the smith stood on the bow of a great big merchant ship called_ Friede's Goodbye, _their backs to the shrinking continent, where they spent their whole lives._

 _Laurence admired the ship's captain and her motley crew- they were a tight knit group with a hard work ethic. Each morning since their departure the otter woke up before sunrise and watched the crew work in tandem. His claws tapped a steady rhythm against the pommel of his gray rapier._

 _Fendrel spent most of his time below deck in the traveler's quarters, face down in a bucket. Not quite as thrilled by the sea adventure like Laurence. Today he stood beside the otter._

" _Great weather today, eh Fendrel?" said the river otter. "Do you think we'll get to see any sea creatures out here?"_

 _The mouse didn't answer, and instead moaned with pain. His face looked an unearthly pale, claws hooked into the railing of the ship. His face turned flushed and he fell to the deck of the ship._

 _Laurence cleared his throat and nudged the mouse. "I... I err, talked with the captain earlier today. You and me need to talk about something important." Fendrel's pallid eyes turned in his direction. The otter cleared his throat, "He says that several belongings of his crew are going missing."_

" _What are you telling me for?" inquired Fendrel with a hint of indignation._

" _I- you stole from the villagers when we were in Celcairn, so I was just making sure-"_

 _Fendrel picked himself up and started to fire back, "Look mate. I am truly sorry fer stealing before, really. It was wrong an' I should not have done that. But I haven't stole nothin' on this ship! Think about it, mate, why would I steal from somebeast who I can't get away from after doing it? That would just be stup-"_

" _Alright mate." The otter raised his paws, "I'm sorry fer accusing you of stealing. I just wanted to be sure."_

" _Sorry nothin'. I'm offended at the very idea. For shame, matey." Fendrel leaned back against the railing before turning over and retching the last of his stomach's contents._

 _Laurence figured the bout of illness to be caused by motion sickness, but the distinct smell of liquor as Fendrel wobbled away made him suspect otherwise._

~.~.~.~

The slaves stumbled under the press of the guards, and together they headed towards the last bastion of civilization. The outer walls. Nothing but frozen forests and vast tundra plains laid before them. The winds engulfed each creature, causing them to uncontrollably vellicate. Ansley ordered the group to set camp beside the wall, and they waited for the soldiers Rickart and Ingward to return with the Prisoner King.

Several minutes ticked by. Ansley and the other guards gossiped and cracked jokes together in circle. The bluejacket mouse paced along the chain gang to and fro, keeping eyes peeled for any talk between the prisoners.

When Laurence saw the mouse was out of earshot, he whispered roughly his encounter to Tope, the only creature he knew well in the chain gang. "They're not coming back with him."

"How do ye know that?"

"Because I just saw Vikkars. He was watching us from the parapets as we left the Crucible."

Tope scuffed his claws in the snow, his brow furrowed. "And ye know for certain it was him?"

"Yes. If anybeast could spot Vik it would be me. I spent way too much time with him-"

The mouse guard grew near, and the two grew silent. He passed them both without a second glance.

Frostfang put a paw to the stitches running down his throat. "Argh, hopefully there ain't much more walkin' to do. I wasn't wearing my snow boots when they took me to The Drag."

"Do you think we should tell th' guards about what y' saw?" inquired Tope.

Laurence considered that for a moment. "No. It's not our problem."

The stoat opened his mouth to respond when the mouse guard punched Tope again in the face, knocking him straight to the ground.

"Hey!" Yelled somebeast from further down the chain gang, "Why don't you leave him alone, hmm?"

Everybeast turned to face the speaker. A hedgehog wearing only trousers and a tattered, bloodied jerkin. Both eyes blackened from what Laurence reckoned a vicious fight.

Ansley stepped closer to the hedgehog. "Ha har! I almost didn't recognize you, August! What with you not wearin' that strapping bluejacket uniform you used t' wear everywhere!" He stepped even closer. August looked down. The stoat turned to his comrades, "We should show mister turncoat here what happens to his kind, eh fellas?"

The gathering group of soldiers snickered and jeered at the comment.

Without warning, Ansley socked the hedgehog right in the face with the butt of his spear. Before August could recover, Ansley slapped him over the head with the spearpoint. Throwing away his spear, he continued to viciously throttle the former bluejacket.

Laurence felt himself unable to tear his eyes away. All the other slaves turned away at the gruesome picture, but Laurence took everything in. _Is this the real side of Ansley? The side I never saw until now?_

Ansley finally picked himself up from August, both fists bleeding. "I hope you learned your lesson, y' coward." He turned to the rest of the slaves, and growled, "Get up! All o' youse! We're heading out now. Ingward an' Rickart can meet up wit' us later."

The slaves hoisted to their footpaws, the guards reluctantly picked themselves back up. Once everybeast got in formation Ansley led the chain gang beyond the outer walls, into the arctic wilderness before them.

Here, the winds were fast and relentless. Open tundra fields with not a sign of life to be seen. The same tundra fields he crossed with Gervaise's caravan. With his friend Bertram. The thought of his old friend and the loss of life pained him greatly.

Laurence wished he could go back to that one special day, the day of his last kill in the great war- eleven seasons ago. To relive those moments of pride and accomplishment. If the Fates granted him just one wish in the afterlife, that would be it. To relive that day for an eternity.

Before his father took a spill down those stairs. Before Grahan and Kaesha were taken away from him. Before he brought all this pain and misery upon all these innocent creatures.

~.~.~.~

 _The swaying deck and roar of the monstrous tides sent Laurence back to his private quarters in a moment of weakness. He felt as though he would throw up at any given moment, and did not relish the idea of doing so in front of his new sailor friends._

 _Dripping wet, the otter slid open the door and moved into the lit-up room. Fendrel the mouse appeared to be passed out in bed. A pair of gin bottles rolled on the floor. The smith's pack was left open and Laurence assumed the mouse had been in the middle of packing up his things._

 _He decided to put up the rest of the mouse's belongings. Laurence gasped when he discovered the sword of Grahan- Sondern, tucked inside of a rolling blanket, hanging from the pack. He must have taken it after Grahan was stolen from them._

 _The sheets stained with unnatural colors, and the air full of a rank smell brought rise to a sinking feeling in Laurence's gut. The otter felt for a pulse and confirmed that the mouse was not sleeping, but dead._

 _Laurence glanced down at the gin bottles. Dozens of them, rolling along the floor. Toppling from the night stand. One clutched in Fendrel's paws._

 _Unable to control himself, he let out a roar and slammed his fist against the hard wooden bed frame. The screams from his hand did not detract nearly enough to stop Laurence from sobbing._

 _With tears in his eyes, the last wayward soul searched through Fendrel's belongings and took everything of value he could find. Laurence wanted to bring all of it with him, have something to remember his friends by._

 _Even still he did not want to be seen by anybeast at the ghastly scene, so he gathered what he could make use of and fled back to the ship's deck._

~.~.~.~

Laurence snapped out of his reverie when the outfit reached the frozen marshes.

To the left and ahead of the chain gang, the swamp. All around them were trees with enormous tree trunks. Some of the smaller trees were bent double and their branches hung over the bankside, each one as stiff as an icicle. The line of slaves sat themselves down with their backs against a fallen tree trunk.

Ansley called for a quick break and headed off into the marshes alone to go smoke his pipe. On his way into the bush grove, the stoat smiled and gave Laurence a sly wink. The other five bluejackets gathered together and started to gossip once more.

 _He's going to help me get out of this alive,_ thought the otter with hope. He eyed the rest of the slaves with sadness. _Do the rest of them perish?_

Turning to the stoat Benwrath to ask another question, Laurence saw from the corner of his eyes the former bluejacket in the chain gang stand to their footpaws. Standing before them, unaware- the cantankerous mouse guard.

With not even the slightest bit of hesitation the hedgehog brought his chains down on the mouse's skull. Looping them around the neck of his victim, August constricted the bluejacket. The mouse feebly clutched at the chains with one paw and toward his cluster of comrades with the other. Nobeast heard a thing.

Laurence faced Tope to see his reaction to the sudden turn of events, and got more than he bargained for- burning eyes, full of... vehemence? Fanaticism? Rage, perhaps? The corner of the stoat's mouth grew taut and his body coiled like a snake. Laurence could tell there was more going on than he was aware of, and he decided to keep out of whatever it was.

Once the bluejacket was surely dead, August released his grip. The corpse slumped to the ground. The sound attracted the attention of the other three soldiers. Upon seeing the corpse all of them began to move toward the body.

To Tope and Laurence's right, another slave picked herself up. Tope followed suit, and Laurence emulated the action.

Without any hesitation, the former mercenary geared into his combative [nature]. He observed two of the slavers blindly rushed forward with their weapons drawn; the former mercenary also observed the gargantuan sea otter approaching with caution.

No weapons to be found. He held out his fists and attempted to bring them into a fighting stance but the chains restricted his movement. The other slaves made use of whatever they could find: rocks, sticks, even their own claws.

One of the bluejackets raised their sword and moved in to kill Tope Benwrath, directly to Laurence's right. Using his quick reaction time Laurence used his brute strength and pulled the stoat down to the floor, helping them avoid the swinging blade. He jerked his left paw forward to try and grab the sword out of his opponent's hand, but the other tugging forces prevented him from fulfilling his plan.

Taking a brief moment to look further down the chain gang. August was using the dagger of the deceased mouse to fight off a soldier, and managed to score a fatal wound on the enemy.

A blood-chilling scream cut short brought Laurence's attention back to his side of things. A slave crumpled to the earth after the nearby soldier yanked out his sword from the victim's chest.

Tope launched himself forward onto the enemy and knocked them down to the ground. Laurence was yanked down as well and had to maneuver away from the sword at the last possible moment. The stoat throttled the bluejacket until they stopped moving.

The fourth soldier, the sea otter, drew his weapon and backed up from the approaching wall of slaves. Only when his back came against the trunk of a large moss tree did he engage the enemies. He slew one of the aggressors and injured another before succumbing to his demise.

"Is everybeast alright?" asked Laurence, eyeing the survivors. Two of the slaves were deceased. Another two were badly injured- including August, who suffered from a stab wound in his arm and face brutally beaten earlier.

"Check the bodies for keys," suggested Tope. Laurence couldn't help but notice the chains digging into his friend's wrists. The chain gang searched all four bodies thoroughly, but they found nothing. None of them were in possession of a key.

After another minute of searching the realization struck Laurence- _Ansley. He's the one with the set of keys we need._ As though he could read his mind, August finally spoke up.

"That stoat who left the party. He's got what we're looking for. Hmm."

Laurence could feel anguish pressing down on him. The party needed Ansley to be freed, but should the stoat show his face in the encampment again the slaves would surely kill him. He said nothing and decided to watch the cards fall down as they may.

"We need him to come back here. The best thing we can do is hide the bodies and sit back down in formation, then tackle him when he gets close enough."

All of the slaves obliged. They set to work on obfuscating the bodies into the frozen pond and placing themselves back against the fallen tree trunk when they were finished.

Ten minutes crawled slowly by. The Frostfang passed the time by straining his ears to hear what the other prisoners were whispering, before his mind began to wander again.

~.~.~.~

 _Darkness. Still cold and still wet._

 _The soft patter of rain ebbed and flowed in endless cycles._

 _Laurence traveled alone on an open dirt road, With nothing but his cloak and two decorative swords slung to his back. His eyes adjusted easily to the darkness, trained for any sudden movements from the hillside to his left or the forestry to the right._

 _His stomach growled in cadence with the sound of the rain. The last month turned out cruel and unforgiving ever since Laurence came to these lands. He knew how to survive in the wilderness on his own, but these locals were not kind to foreigners and not many crops or vegetation grew out here._

 _The continent was much larger and contained more stretches of wilderness than his own. Twice now, Laurence had been attacked by vagrants demanding his belongings, and both times he ended up with a couple new battle scars._

 _So it was understandable why he stood at the ready to fight this new arrival on the road before him. It looked to be an elder hare, with an enormous, almost comically-sized pack. All sorts of knick-knacks and contraptions hung loose from straps or ropes connected._

 _A merchant. Laurence clicked the hilt of his back against the top of the sheath and gave a bow. "Hello there! You're the first friendly face I've encountered since arriving to these lands. You don't have any food on you, do you, sir?"_

" _Aye, that I do, got plenty of bread and potatoes." replied the hare. As he spoke, the rain finally started to die and Laurence removed his own hood. "Certainly don't flippin' sound like you're from around here. Where did you come from, laddie?"_

" _Let's just say I came from across the seas. How much for the bread?" Laurence reached into his pocket and felt for the coin bag. Bringing it out, he realized with a sense of dread that there was no money left. Not a single dime._

" _Two silver." The hare held out his paws._

 _Laurence mumbled quietly, and began to search his pack for anything worth selling. There was nothing of value. Nothing at all, save for a pair of swords. The two pawcrafted weapons from the now-deceased Fendrel- Redwind the rapier and Sondern the longsword._

 _He did not wish to part with either blade, both held a special place in his heart. Redwind was the very weapon made specially for him, was supposed to become his family's next ancestral sword, while Sondern originally belonged to Grahan._

" _How much would a sword fetch?" asked Laurence, voice breaking._

 _The hare laughed. "A sword? I say, if the make is good enough, then I would give all the bread and potatoes I've got! Wot wot."_

 _Somber, the otter looked down at the two swords and impulsively handed over the former._

~.~.~.~

Laurence jumped when Tope tapped him on the shoulder. "August's blood. It's all over the place, we'll need t' remove it before that bluejacket comes back..."

Tope was in the process of picking himself up when the sound of rustling bushes came from behind them. Laurence used his strong grip to pull the stoat down.

Ansley whistled a merry tune as he pushed through the groves. Without even turning to face the prisoners he made his way past them to the edge of the swamp. He stood less than ten feet away from the chain gang, admiring the frozen wonderland. Using his dagger to cut a hole in the thick ice, he splashed the frigid water on his face.

While he did this, behind him Tope stood up on his footpaws before Laurence roughly brought him back down again. He gave a shake of his head. _Not yet, you must be patient._

"Ahh, sure is nice out here. I'll have t' come out here more often on m' days off." Ansley turned back to the chain gang. He took a pair of steps forward, then stopped.

He scanned over the hushed environment. The guards missing, the face of August, face locked in agony and holding his shoulder. His eyes trailed across the dots of blood marked all over the place.

Ansley drew his dagger a second time. Not even a moment later a large stone connected with his face. As the stoat fell to the ground, all the prisoners started to bludgeon him with whatever they had in their paws.

Laurence decided right then and there to take charge of the situation. Sitting around and letting events unfold before him did not work. If he wanted to save Ansley's life, he needed to act now.

He knocked over several aggressors and shouted until everybeast finally turned to face him. "Listen up! Listen here! Use your noggins, if we kill this bluejacket right now, there goes our only chance to gather intel or info. I don't know about you lot, but I want to know what these 'Proving Grounds' are. We deserve answers, and killin' this one isn't going to bring them."

Several creatures nodded, but the hedgehog August had different ideas. "You have no idea some of the monstrosities this one has committed, volunteer. You did not serve alongside him in the bluejacket forces. He's beaten and brutalized countless slaves in his time, not to mention."

Laurence faced Ansley. The fear of certain doom stamped on his face. How was he going to save his friend from death? He cleared his throat.

"Yes... I can't deny that. Ansley has done terrible things in his lifetime. But why kill him now, when we can make use of him? Let's not close the door on Ansley's life when we haven't even walked through the frame. Perhaps it will the path that lead us to victory." All of the slaves now freed from their shackles looked onward at the former mercenary with wide eyes.

Taking advantage of the moment, Laurence continued. "We could run away from here, right now. Head south for warmer, safer lands and never see Marshank or the Crucible ever again. Live out the rest of our lives wondering what could have been. Or we can take the fight to them- to Cain and Hale- to the bluejackets- to the aristocrats."

Laurence's words weighed heavy in the air. The murmuring between the newly freed slaves steadied the ambience of nature's sound. From a very young age the otter discovered that sometimes when it mattered most, the words simply came on their own accord; sometimes he surprised even himself with the things he came up with.

"Help me help the others trapped in the Crucible. We can free the rest of the prisoners if we work together."

The murmuring stopped. The otter grew fearful that perhaps he went too far. But after a few beats, the influential slave Tope Benwrath stepped forward and stood beside Laurence, pointing a claw toward him.

"I've seen what he's capable of. I heard talks of him comin' from a place of eternal war. If anybeast can lead us in a task like this, it's this riverdog. Count me in, Frostfang."

At that, the other slaves began to chant his Crucible name in unison. "Frostfang! Frostfang!"

The otter shook his head gravely. "Don't address me by that name. The ones in there..." He pointed back toward Marshank, "They gave me that title. Call me by my real name- Laurence Copeland."

~.~.~.~

 _A thickness enveloped the room in a cloying lavender smell. Candles flickered in and out, providing the room an irresponsible brightness. The chirping of pheasants filtering in the curtained window behind._

 _Laurence sat in a chair. Facing forward, he studied the features of his broken father. Bandages wrapped tight around his skull. Sleeping peacefully enough._

 _The doctors said he suffered from poor cognitive functioning and even worse motor skills._

 _Just like that, his father suddenly snatched away from him. All the doors of opportunity or possibility slammed shut in an instant._

 _He could not eat or relieve himself on his own anymore. No walking ever again, no more speaking coherently._

 _No more tears on Laurence's face. Since his father's unfortunate accident, he became strangely calm and resolute. The family turned to him for guidance. Laurence looked down at the worn, wrinkled commander outfit on his form. The very same outfit from that awful night._

 _Come to the King's courts when you are ready, the guards told Laurence two evenings ago. What if he never found himself ready? What if he didn't feel like becoming the Army Commander?_

 _Laurence faced his father. His father, who would never see the world, never see anything across the oceans, never see what life outside of Helmsford could be like._

 _And Laurence would soon end up like his father. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the rest of his life, and there would be no more freedom. Tomorrow, he would shoulder the responsibility of family, duty, and loyalty, and every day to follow after._

 _No. The youthful otter rose up from the chair and stood to his footpaws. He felt that life was too short, far too short, to already be throwing his freedom away for such heavy responsibility._

 _He made his way for the door on the other end of the room. When Laurence reached the doorframe, he turned back and stared at the fragments of his father figure._

 _One day Laurence would return home, and tell his father all about his adventures. He would come back home someday, and nothing would ever stop him._


	35. The Standoff

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Standoff**

 _A Collaboration, Feat. Laurence and Vikkars_

* * *

A bright moon rose over the dark king. Drugaen Vikkars stood at the edge of the eastern wall of the monstrous Crucible and stared out across the blackened seas beneath. Bostitch, the scrawny weasel bluejacket, stood a few paces behind him in silence.

Vikkars rubbed at the rusted and blood-caked iron crown crudely sewn into his scalp. The headaches were an ever-present reminder of his 'badge' of honor…and the fools who sought to demean and humiliate him with the painful act would shudder in terror soon.

His eyes scanned the tips of the waves. No, it wouldn't be by sea…they would come by land, marching in thunderous paw, his hoards shaking the terrain with their approach.

"My thunder," he spoke softly. He grinned at the thought.

"What was that?" Bostitch asked. He cocked his head to the side slightly.

Vikkars rested both paws atop the wall and sighed. "I am anticipating the coming storm," he said. " _My_ storm."

Bostitch's eyes grew bright. "Oh, your army!"

"Yes," Vikkars said. "And not a moment too soon. My skills and cunning have kept me alive these previous rounds, but I can't surprise another opponent as I have." He flicked at a stray pebble and watched it disappear into the night to be swallowed by the sea. "I didn't kill for their applause, or to feel some sort of accomplishment. It was their game, and I was one of their play-things."

"One of the favorites," Bostitch added.

Vikkars narrowed his eyes. "No longer."

Bostitch nodded. "As soon as they arrive, you'll make things right, eh, Vikka—I mean, Your Majesty?"

Vikkars smirked and shook his head. _Oh, how the survivors cling to the victors…and where were you before tonight, eh, weasel? Where was your loyalty when they brought me in, bloodied and frenzied, and beat me into a fevered sleep? Where was your praise before my promised gold found a home in your hungry pockets? You are here for the sake of convenience, so I won't be stopped and questioned before my time._

"Walk behind me, Bostitch." Vikkars pushed off from the wall and headed south.

"By your command," Bostitch replied, falling into pawstep.

"Are you able to write?" Vikkars asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have a parchment and stylus?"

Bostitch reached into his belt. "Yes, sir."

Vikkars nodded. "I want you to write what I tell you, and keep it on you for when my army arrives. I'll tell you when it is time to give it to me."

"Of course," Bostitch said. He unrolled the parchment scrap and held the stylus in his stronger paw, ready to transcribe.

Vikkars folded his paws behind his back and raised his head to the night's sky, closing his eyes and disappearing into memory. "Do you remember when I was brought in here?"

Bostitch nodded. "Yes."

"Who stitched the crown on my head?"

Bostitch's eyes widened. "Ah…that was…Goengs and Keena."

Vikkars nodded. "Write their names, and write 'crown' next to them."

Bostitch drew the parchment close to his face and scribbled in a fury.

"The guards that beat me after the stitching?"

Bostitch scratched at the base of his chin with the stylus. "Jowl, Flock, Odee, and Brandywyne."

"Four?" Vikkars opened one of his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"Aye," Bostitch chuckled, then caught himself and cleared his throat.

"Indeed," Vikkars echoed. "Next to their names, write 'beating.'"

Bostitch wrote quickly again.

"The guards that kept food and water from me?"

"Colegrove and Kerpaw."

"The guards that bet against me in the fights?"

"Kerpaw, Goengs, Vraycie, Leffley, Cabbie… at least them, maybe more?"

"The guard that shouted profane names and whistled at me in the halls?"

"Nelda, sir."

"And the guard that gave me the nickname 'Iron King'?"

Bostitch stopped suddenly and looked up from the parchment. Vikkars stared him down, a cruel smile twisting at the edge of his mouth.

"W—whu—?"

"My name," Vikkars said, calmly plucking the stylus from Bostitch's trembling paw. "Who gave me that fetching and memorable fighting name, the moniker that will outlast all the other competitors in this rank hell-hole?"

Bostitch melted under Vikkars' gaze, and tears sprang at the edges of his eyes. "W—wh—wh—who—?"

"It was you," Vikkars said plainly. He seized Bostitch by the back of his headfur and squeezed hard, as he leaned in closer to the weasel's face with the stylus. "You…you celebrated my humiliation. You took away my name, and gave me another…" Vikkars used the tip of the stylus to pull Bostitch's lower eyelid down, exposing his fear-drenched eye.

Bostitch blubbered and stammered in Vikkars' unrelenting grasp. "P—p—pl—pl—ple—plea—"

Vikkars sighed. "But it will do…for now." He released Bostitch and tossed the stylus at his coat, smirking again as the weasel scrambled to pick it up and wipe his face free of the traces of his weeping. "Remember yourself, Bostitch. You are not the only pawn I am controlling here."

Bostitch wiped at his eye with a flat palm. "What?" he asked.

"Hale will be dead before daybreak," Vikkars said. "One of his nurses will decide the medicine he needs is poisonous to him, and he'll drink it down, or have it poured down his ear or nose…either way will suffice. And Cain—dear Cain—has an 'acquaintance' awaiting him in his chambers. The armed and angry sort, if you understand?"

Bostitch gaped at Vikkars, and the ferret waved his expression away.

"You insult me with your surprise, Bostitch; don't ever underestimate me, or you'll end up with a knife between your ribs—or worse!" Vikkars cackled at his own statement and inhaled through his nose. "My life has taught me one great disappointment: everyone thinks me unable to accomplish. That's why my parents had to die—my father, the great king and lord of House Drugaen…" He laughed again and spat. "Great king indeed! He let his rivals hem us in on all sides, and bartered with them for peace— _peace!_ "

Bostitch began trembling again. "You—?"

"I slit his throat and buried his face in a pillow," Vikkars said. "And when I felt his struggle weaken, I stabbed through the pillow until I was left with dripping feathers." Vikkars stopped at the southeastern corner of the wall, and turned around to face Bostitch. "I went and sat in my mother's chambers for at least an hour. I watched her sleep, I caressed her face and brushed her fur, I kissed her cheek. Then I plunged that same knife, still wet with my father's blood, into her heart."

Bostitch gaped in silence.

"She tried to sit up, and she began to cry out, but I struck her across the face…" Vikkars rubbed at the wrist of his left paw in recollection, and chuckled. "I'd forgotten I was wearing my gauntlets…I hadn't removed my armor from field combat earlier in the day. I needed her to be silent, and I didn't want the guards to hear…I hadn't struck her hard, but I caved in the side of her face." Vikkars looked at Bostitch and shrugged. "I think there was more blood with her than with my father…but she had to die, as well. She loved him. Despite his _weakness_ , despite his _flaws_ , and it was obvious he wasn't worthy of the throne, _but she loved him anyways!"_

Bostitch sniffed hard and looked around, making sure Vikkars' shouts hadn't aroused suspicion.

"I killed my parents and took the throne, and would've conquered all of my family's rivals if my generals hadn't grown timid and weak at the first sign of resistance." Vikkars shook his head and closed his eyes again. "My own kin, my own subjects…taking arms against me while on the battlefield…turning to fight alongside my enemies, _becoming_ my enemy." He sighed and opened his eyes slowly. "When is a king's burden too much to bear?"

"Your Majesty. We should keep moving back toward the Crucible. If one of Hale's lackeys catches us out here this late at night- not even my presence could stop their inquiries."

The two reached the southeastern corner of the wall, and began heading west.

Why did he bring up his parents in front of Bostitch? The ferret's head throbbed as he reflected on the disclosure of such a personal memory. Whether he liked it or not, Bostitch now represented as an outside witness to those intimate moments forever.

As if to break the silence, or perhaps to keep his master occupied with more pleasant thoughts, the weasel cleared his throat. "That escape attempt last week? How unexpected."

Whispers of escape and freedom rumbled in the lower cells. They did not ask for his help, and he did not offer any. Vikkars did not want to escape from the Crucible. He wanted to take the ancient fortress from the claws of Cain Seftis and his lackeys- throw them captive into their own jail cells and starve them- make them fight one another until not a single culprit and abetter lived.

"I saw it coming a mile away," growled Vikkars, "For such a clandestine operation, they certainly had quite a few conspirators involved."

 _Whip._ The flow of the conservation beckoned the ferret to unintentionally recall his one and only encounter with the elusive Captain Whip. Before the last Culling, the captain sat him down and the two talked. The officer explained to the him that if he cooperated in reporting any troublemakers in the slave's ranks, he could receive special treatments.

Cain and Hale may have neutered him, but Whip gave him the proverbial keys to every lock in all of the Crucible. A terrible miscalculation, one that they will all soon discover.

"Any word on which particular rock your old captain slithered under?"

"Not a peep, Your Majesty. Must've wisened up and taken off while he still had the chance."

The ferret's face contorted into a sneer. _No way in hellgates would that rat give up his precious home so easily._ "He's out there somewhere." His sources did not have the slightest clue where the Whip could be hiding. "We'll find him out." _Somebeast in the Crucible knows where he went._

A pair of sentries marched past, exchanging whispers as they observed Vikkars walking openly on the parapets. No chains, no collar. The ferret's hackles rose.

"Who were they?" snarled Vikkars, once he felt certain they were out of earshot.

Bostitch nervously cleared his throat. "I believe that was Plank and Domhnall. Don't worry, Your Majesty. They aren't bought by anybeast."

They finally walked far enough west and they reached the part of the wall that met with solid ground. Following a winding stairwell down to the interior, the King of Iron exited through a broken door frame and felt his bare footpaws come into contact with the cold, wet ice.

 _Solomon._ Vikkars seethed with fury at the recollection of that puritanical fitch denying his offers of wealth and protection from the coming storm.

" _An army on the outside, just waiting to liberate them all! Mr. Vikkars, I hear that story on a weekly basis. It stokes the fires of hope and makes the realization that much colder when the army does not come."_

The ferret jerked his head suddenly at the cowering weasel behind him, causing Bostitch to jump. "Add the fitch's name to the the list, the assistant of Cain. Solomon."

"Aye, Your Majesty."

When they finally entered the Crucible through one of the backdoors of the empty mess hall, Vikkars found himself facing bad news. A petite vole scribe stood there patiently waiting for his arrival.

"I have terrible news." She paused for a moment, and right when Vikkars opened his mouth to verbally prod her, she continued. "The gladiator assassin you paid to off Cain... he… he made a mess of the job. Got him in the shoulder but didn't kill him."

Unbridled fury took over the ferret's frame of mind. He kicked over a wooden stool and roared in anger, before he composed himself again. " _Where is he?!_ "

"Wimmick and his cohorts captured the bloke, taking him to the Decompression Chamber."

In his rage he broke a chair in two and chunked the pieces of wood across the expansive hall. _Vision all in red, veins pulsing, adrenaline rushing, don't lose focus, by the blood and iron-_

Everything clicked into place again, and Vikkars stood tall. His body slackened and demeanor reverted back to the usual scowl.

"No matter. I can still make this work." He turned to Bostitch, hiding behind a fallen table. "Go into Cain's chambers and make sure that nurse didn't kill off Hale already. Tell them to hold off." While Bostitch scurried out of the room, he faced the vole. "Move some money around. Pay the guards standing outside of the Decompression Chambers handsomely, see to it their shift ends early."

"There is something else." She took a moment. "Whispers indicate that your army is within sight of Marshank Settlement. They'll be upon the outskirts before sunrise."

A huge, unsettling grin broke out on the ferret's face. "Yes, excellent!" He did not respond or address the vole, and instead left the room in a hurry.

Back outside into the cold. This time a light snowfall greeted the ferret. To his surprise, several gladiators stood in a circle around the center of the courtyard. They looked to be enjoying themselves immensely, drinking and singing. An initiation, perhaps? Vikkars kept to the fringes of the dying garden hedges to avoid being seen.

 _Kahmabutcha._ Among the mass of gladiators, the freak foreigner drank heartily. Kamba and Vikkars never spoke in person but the two always caught sight of one another in the hallways or in the mess hall. The ferret kept a wide berth from the erratic, unpredictable creature- there was no way of telling what the mongoose could be thinking at any given moment. Not a useful instrument.

Back inside. Cold, damp and dark halls led into the arena. The hastened pace of his pawsteps did not detract the thoughts from his racing mind. Still, he lingered on the question of the gladiators in the courtyard.

 _Must be still celebrating his victory against Copeland, most likely._

 _Laurence Copeland._ A smile flitted onto the ferret's splintered face. The ultimate pawn in this game of life. Nobeast more gullible or willing to do his bidding. But even the most willing of servants can bungle their tasks. Sometimes the manipulation of the otter was all too-easy, and brought Vikkars' guard down. Other times the erratic mercenary shocked Vikkars with brazen and foolish behavior.

Recently, things started turning into more of the latter, and the King of Iron found himself left with no choice. He made certain that Copeland was among the few on Hale's shortlist to be taken out into the frozen wilderness to be put down. He convinced the blackout drunk Copeland to go and try to kill Cain, and once it inevitably failed, the otter ended up thrown into The Drag.

Hopping down from the stands to the arena in the center, Vikkars remembered that moment he felt the hint of a peculiar emotion fall across him when he watched the guards take his favorite instrument away. Perhaps in the future he could find himself another Copeland. Who knew? Maybe they were a dime a dozen in the south.

Perhaps when Vikkars was done enacting vengeance on his tormentors, he would take his army down south to Mossflower. To Redwall Abbey? No, Vikkars knew all about the warlords and chieftains who tried and failed to capture Redwall, time and time again. The magical abbey rumored to be protected by the eternal soul of a mouse warrior. He would rather conquer the mountain of badgerlords. Not by force. But by time and patience.

Vikkars discovered from an early age that if anybeast remained patient and took advantage of every opportunity given, they could be unstoppable.

And in a few moments, all of his patience while would finally pay off.

He reached his destination. Pushing open the ancient doors with precision, he bustled inside. Weapons of every kind and from faraway lands filled the shelves and the racks. Some of them familiar to the ferret- longspears from the lizard tribes of the nearby swamplands, slings from the shrew scouts of the southern lands, even a few pikes and falchions from his own soldiers.

Others he only heard tales of, like the morning stars, or thought to be mere legends- like the crossbow. Vikkars used the lower shelves to clamber upwards and pick up the crossbow on the top of the shelves. He jumped back down and admired the fabled weapon, now finally in his possession. The only crossbow in all of the Crucible.

He found the quarrels scattered on the floor in the far corner. Vikkars gathered them all up and into the empty holster hanging from his belt. Taking a minute to load the bow he pulled down the quarrel and slid it into place. He aimed at the nearest dummy and let fly.

The arrow pierced through the straw and loincloth with relative ease, and shuddered after making contact into the wooden wall behind. The ferret nodded his approval.

Grabbing an Illmarsh falchion, he sheathed the weapon into the scabbard and attached it to his hip as well.

Back into the arena. He traipsed through the piling snow until he reached the other side, where a locked door stood. _Voices coming from inside the room._ Vikkars reached into his surcoat and finagled through each of the keys until he found the right one, and furtively turned the key. It did not click. _They changed the locks?_

With no time to waste, Vikkars made his way into the armory and looped around the circular halls surrounding the arena. From small slats in the walls the reflective light from the torch poles outside illuminated the otherwise pitch black pathways.

He met with an unpleasant new arrival, blocking his way into the Decompression Chamber.

The new Captain of the Bluejackets, idled nearby. He stood in the way- where two sentries should have been.

 _Wimmick._ In his plays for power, Vikkars knew better than to recruit the rat. He gained much from the fall of his former leader Whip. More than likely, he served as an agent for the deceitful Hale Seftis. _That, or the most fortunate of fools._

Silently cursing the rat and all of his descendants, the Prisoner King stepped into the light.

"What brings you here, Captain?" said Vikkars in a flat tone, hiding the crossbow under his tattered cloak.

The rat's face shifted from surprise, then quickly to stoicism. "I could ask you the same thing, Prisoner King. Cain will be quite pleased when he hears how I captured you again."

Vikkars let the silence linger a bit longer than usual before responding, straining his ears to hone in on the rumbling voices behind the door frame. He stepped closer. "You're in the way."

Wimmick grew uncomfortable at the closeness, and took a step back. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't see you thrown right into the lower levels of The Drag."

"You mean the same lower levels in which a certain lame flittermouse escaped from?" Before Wimmick had time to fully register the insult, he felt the end of a crossbow pressed against his neck. "Open the door. Quietly."

With trembling paws, Wimmick reached for his keys and pulled them out from his embroidered jerkin. He inserted one into the lock and was about to to turn, when the ferret hissed. The rat's claws stayed.

Vikkars took a brief moment to accurately judge the positioning of all three voices inside the room. After he felt an absolute certainty, he used the blunt end of the crossbow to send the rat captain crumpling into the stone floor.

The voices stopped.

Reveling in his moment of surprise, the ferret kicked the door open and let the quarrel fly.

His efforts were rewarded with the sound of gurgling. Vikkars briskly reloaded the weapon.

The dying gladiator assassin faced the king with an expression of shock, the bolt lodged in his throat. Beside him, a young mouse bluejacket with an expression of disbelief. Off to one side, Cain stood facing the newcomer with his jaw agape. Behind the wildcat, Solomon the fitch dropped his pen.

"Stop this madness. What do you think you're doing?" Roared Cain once he got over his surprise. "Put down that weapon! Guards, stop him!"

"Save your breath, Seftis. There are no guards down here for another two hours. I made a certainty of that."

"There's no way you walk away from this room still breathing," growled Cain. "What you're doing is nothing short of suicide!"

From the corner of his eye, the mouse made a move. Vikkars again let the quarrel fly, and this time the intended target died almost immediately.

Vikkars sidled into the room and aimed his crossbow squarely at Cain. "Your reign is over, Seftis. My army is outside of Marshank- waiting for their orders to storm the village and slay all of your loyal customers!" His eyes widened, grinning, "And once they are finished, they will storm this fortress and kill each and every one of you."

"No. I don't believe that, you're lying between your teeth." Cain hissed, baring his fangs.

"He's telling the truth, my lord." muttered Solomon. "He's... he's right."

Cain shook his head and remained insistent. "I don't believe a word of it, and if you think I'm just going to stay here and-" He took a step. A bolt careened past his footpaw and contacted hard with the floor.

"So we're staying right here then, until one of us is proven otherwise."

They found themselves at an impasse. Cain did not believe him, and Vikkars wanted to witness the look on his former captor's face when he found himself wrong.

For countless uneventful minutes, the trio of highborn creatures stood to attention, facing one another. And hours later, only with the sounds of the sentry relief approaching did the silence finally break.

The voices from the outside came through the cracks of the locked door, ever so insistent: "Milord! Milord, there's an army outside the settlement! Hundreds of 'em, armed t' the teeth!"

In that very moment of revelation, it seemed as though all the weight in the world came crashing down on Cain's shoulders. His posture slumped and he faced the floor with a look of defeat coming over his face.

"Oh, don't despair quite yet, Cain!" Vikkars couldn't help but gleefully laugh. "There is still a small probability you and your Crucible can walk away in one piece from this deadlock! Yes, a miniscule chance indeed! There's just one thing."

Cain Seftis only sighed, closing his eyes and massaging the temples of his head. "Just- just name it."

Vikkars lowered the crossbow.

"All I necessitate is a small list of demands…"

 **[End of Round Five]**


	36. Long Defeat

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Long Defeat**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

Soon the moments turned into hours, and hours into days. With every passing day, the weather became a constant, winding snowfall. Each time around mid-noon the flurry arrived, like clockwork. The days were growing longer again.

Two more of his followers perished in the frozen tundra early on- a frail volemaid and a lame otter. Laurence saw to it that they be put to rest and given the proper respects. Not so much for his sake, but to keep up the morale of the troops. Nothing killed the momentum of a rebellion quicker than leaving the dead to rot when it could be avoided.

Knowing they did not stand a chance surviving in the wilderness, Laurence led the party back toward the Crucible. The very last place they ever wanted to see, but also the last place anybeast would ever expect to find them... or so he hoped.

Before leaving the marshes he ordered the group to scour the location for any sustenance they could find. Thirteen creatures and only seven weapons between the lot of them. No food, not a drop of water.

While vaguely recalling at one point standing atop a plateau on the side of a mountain, Laurence felt the thrill and rush of being tasked with a fighting force and a purpose one more time. The entire situation he found himself in, he considered a worthy challenge. One he would gladly accept.

Always close to him, Ansley the former bluejacket bore the same chains August once did. In recent times he sported two black eyes and a broken claw, but at least he still lived- all thanks to Laurence's efforts.

Mid-morning they reached the same hill banks overlooking north of the settlement which Ansley and his soldiers escorted them through. From there they spotted an army to the west. Vikkars' army. Laurence recalled with a grim insight sending out a pair of scouts to investigate the tentative situation within Marshank Settlement. Hours later they returned, with news of abandoned shacks and tents, businesses broken into and lifeless streets.

 _Drugaen Vikkars._ The otter ringleader knew that if given their chance, the Snow Brigade should assassinate the Iron King. The ferret proved time and time again he did not hold the best interests of the common Marshank settler at heart. He only cared for his own interests.

Laurence felt that this whole situation came about from his own doings, and before he could leave this place in confidence he would need to fix his mistakes. Taking advantage of the dubious opportunity the Snow Brigade moved into the forsaken homes for their base of operations. His outfit's spirits seemed to be lifted greatly with newfound shelter and food.

Former prisoner Tope Benwrath proved to be an excellent deputy. Young, athletic, and content with following orders, although whether this was due to a blinding commitment to the cause or from a blissful ignorance remained to be seen.

Laurence could not help but notice the peculiar arrival of dozens of bluejackets in the following days; most likely given orders to keep a tightened hold over the settlement no matter the cost.

One particular morning, Laurence struck out on a lonely walk to collect his thoughts when he nearly ran straight into a patrol of bluejackets. Ducking behind a clothesline, he watched as they appeared to check the surrounding homes for signs of life.

Crack. Door hinges coming apart and falling to the wayside settled over the landscape.

Groups of them stormed inside while a few more waited outside in the cold. One of them returned outside with a protesting homeowner, thrown to the side as his goods were carted out and distributed amongst the soldiers.

The otter departed from his spot in unison with a loud clatter from a thrown pebble.

And the otter would return. With a sword in his paw and a tidal wave of others, ebbing and churning for a justice- quite unlike the Crucible's.

~.~.~.~

Blood. More bloodshed.

The unexpected happened, when a hidden letter borne from one of the blue clad corpses became found- addressed to Laurence stenciled on the front.

 _Frostfang,_

 _It has reached my ears that you still draw breath. I shouldn't be surprised. You could never do anything right in life; of course you can't die correctly._

 _And what now, Copeland? Is it back to that pining notion of reforming the Crucible? Saving your fellow vagrants? Will you storm these halls and bring revolution to the North? Your naiveté is sickening, even in your absence._

 _But you are nothing if not predictable. Some other glittering trifle will catch your eye, and you will run. Is that not how it has always been with you? You are a beast of simple means, and simple beasts always return to their habits._

 _These creatures of Marshank will hang. I have planned it, and so it shall be. Before I assume my rightful place among these commonfolk, do the one thing in which you have some skill. Run. Run far away. Cling to that ever elusive temptress, and remember this land as an unpleasant dream._

 _Because if you stay, I will find you. I will string you up in the city streets until the cold suffocates your cries and your blood paints the stones. There you will remain, an eternal effigy to folly and futility._

 _I am always watching. I am always listening._

 _-Drugaen Vikkars, the true King of Illmarsh, reigning Lord Regent of the Crucible._

Laurence did not go on another lonely walk for the rest of the week.

~.~.~.~

 _This was the right thing. This was necessary._

The sounds of twine and straw coiling and tightening before shooting up.

Four bluejackets- strung up by the neck and swaying in the cold breeze as they kicked and tore at their throats.

 _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few._ His Father's own timeless adage.

All the others turned away, unused to such brutality. Laurence did not drop his gaze.

"What do we do with the rest of the bodies?" said somebeast from behind.

"We burn them."

 _We did much worse to stay alive all those years ago during the war. This is just intimidation._

They might have taken the life of one rebel, but Laurence saw to it that none of the offenders survived. His followers gathered around to watch the grim procession while the bodies were lit up. They all knew what had to be done.

"This is jus' sick. What is the meaning of this?" gasped a voice behind him. "This is wrong."

 _They were already dead, you numbskull._

"They were already dead. Burning the enemy's deceased is not considered a war cri-"

"I ain't talkin' about that. It's about lynching them while they're alive. I thought ye called yourself a hero? A hero would not do somethin' like this."

Laurence turned around to face the speaker. The stoat stood tall, eyes filled with disbelief. The otter felt surprised at the disapproving behavior, but tried to retain a neutral expression regardless.

"I'm not a hero. I'm Just trying to do something right by these folk."

Tope Benwrath hooked his claws into his outfit. "An' your way of doin' right by them is killin' our enemies in terrible ways?" He shook his head. "All that you are doin' with these tactics is fueling the enemy's need to hunt us down. And when they do finally catch us, there won't be any mercy."

The crackling of the fire between them filled the uneasy silence. The members of the insurgency looked around at one another.

After waiting long enough, Laurence responded. "They indiscriminately capture and enslave creatures from off the streets. They torture and maim anybeast who tries to leave. What makes you think they would show mercy to us? To any of us?"

"There won't be no positive change comin' from all this. I've heard you talkin' to the others, how them bluejackets are lesser than any other creature. Make 'em easier to put down like they're only ferals."

The otter's eyes crackled. "If you have a problem with my methods, then you can leave."

An unanticipated threat. Tope eyed the general direction of empty wilderness, and mumbled something before he fell silent. _Yeah, that's what I thought._

Laurence made to walk away when August bustled down the nearby hill and skidded to a stop before him. "Copeland! There is a new development on the frontlines."

The otter gave an order for all of the lingering insurgents to scatter. He followed the hedgehog five hundred yards away, to the top of a snowy hill where another rebel waited them.

The two newcomers went prone against the snowy ground, alongside the scout. "Sir. There appears to be a courier leaving the horde, and heading towards the Crucible." Following the pointing claws, he could see the outline of a creature trundling alone into Marshank. The archer spat on the ground before continuing, "He's come and gone from the army before. Should we take them out? If we do, it could sever communications between the army and the Crucible."

Laurence studied the disparate form in the distance, clutching a thick coat tightly around a skeletal frame. They looked awfully familiar. As if Laurence knew them from somewhere. A former gladiator, perhaps? Or somebeast he met on his travels outside the Crucible...

The sound of a cord pulled back regathered his thoughts.

That settler he met on the night before his fight with Kamba- _The fat stoat._ They were using him to deliver letters back and forth, realized Laurence.

In the midst of his epiphany, August muttered into Laurence's ear, "Hmm, I know that one, Copeland. Courier Wick of Marshank. He's one of us-"

Laurence turned his attention to the scout on his right. "Take him out. Do it quickly now."

The archer shifted uncomfortably under the rebel leader's gaze. "But even if we prevent him from delivering their-"

"That's an order."

More hesitation. But only for a split second. The archer pulled back the cord, and let fly. The arrow struck Wick in the chest and he collapsed to the ground. Contents from his mailbag tumbled out.

"We could have just captured him. There was no need to kill him!" said August through gritted teeth.

"Now go and see what letters he carried."

"But that's within eyesight of the horde-"

Laurence slammed his fist into the ground. Both rebels jumped at the sudden movement. His burning eyes locked with August's. "That wasn't a suggestion. Now get to it, or you can leave my outfit."

The sound of crunching ice. The archer took off as swiftly as the arrow as the snow launched in different directions. August remained, now standing to his footpaws.

"I respect you, Copeland. But I don't agree with these methods of yours." He held out his paw. The otter begrudgingly shook it. "Leaving our own for dead? Killing innocents? I'll be leaving Marshank for good tomorrow morning, hmm."

 _Think what you will of my methods, hedgehog. Change will not come otherwise._

But would change come at all? The rebel leader wished so. There were no welcoming arms for him and his followers in Marshank. All the remaining locals turned them out into the cold. These lands and denizens fought and struggled with him at every turn.

Following in August's pawsteps he moved toward the granary where most of his soldiers preferred to take refuge. Perhaps some food in his belly would do him some good.

~.~.~.~

Laurence might have taken to bed early that night, but sleep did not come easy.

His excitement for impending conflicts saturated his mind and kept him awake. It had been far too long since the last time he fought in a good full-scale battle, the otter regarded.

As of earlier in that day, his forces now covered most of northern Marshank. Tomorrow they would advance to the south.

Earlier that night the otter chose to position himself on a smattering of straw and hay. Above him the the smashed window let the white noises of nature loose into the granary. Undercutting the whispers of wind and crackling of the fire- quiet, low voices from behind caught his attention.

Before long the rebel leader realized the voices, one high-pitched and nasally - _August_ \- and the other steady and accented - _Tope Benwrath._ What was August doing back here? And what were they talking about? A mutiny, perhaps? Laurence rolled over to face the now subdued muttering and made to look as if he were fast asleep.

When the two felt certain he would not stir again, they continued.

"...Ye recognize me? Ye remember where I come from?" asked Tope. An unprecedented vulnerability came with the questions, catching the eavesdropper by surprise. "Where my family came from?"

"Hmm, I remember. From Southron. By the edge of the Mottlewoods." A long pause, enough to make one wonder if perhaps they left the granary. Finally, the voice of the hedgehog responded. "How... how did you survive the sickness? The Dryditch Fever?"

"Young squirrel lass -another medic- heard about our condition. Days after ye an' the others left she paid a visit. She gave me a potion, told me t' drink it twice a day, but not before me brother Ennis died. Left the followin' morning an' I never saw her again."

"I'm so, so sorry, Tope. Believe me, I truly tried my best to keep your family alive-"

"I hated ye. And the other healers, too. When ye left us to die from the sickness."

August gave a choked sob. "And- You don't- you don't still seem to hate me, at least." Silence. And then, "You don't still hate me?"

"Well. My claws ain't wrapped around your throat, are they?"

Shuffling and repositioning. The otter could hear quiet sniffling from the hedgehog while presuming that Tope settled down for the night.

Laurence couldn't believe his ears. Tope's family, all dead? The stoat could not be any older than twenty-five. And he knew August from before the Crucible...

The otter felt an uneasy sinking feeling in his stomach. What if he came back home to his kingdom, and his own family was dead? _Stop. Don't even think about such things._

The turn of events brought fresh concerns for the stoat. Although they never addressed it as such, the two wayward souls learned to rely on one another to see things through.

New insight took control, and Laurence still felt himself unable to fall asleep that night.

~.~.~.~

The following morning. The rebel leader sent out the only pair of rebels he could find in the granary to go check on the army's location, to see if they moved during the night.

Leaving the deathly silent building behind, Laurence took to the streets and surveyed the landscape for any new developments. Yet still he found the neighboring streets to be empty, to his acceptance.

With the start of the brand new day, two developments took hold: nobeast could find August anywhere, as if he vanished into thin air- and for lunch one of the two scouts managed to find and slay an Arctic Eider, which gave them their first good meal in a very long time.

Everybeast in the Snow Brigade thinned dramatically since their excommunication from the Crucible. But nobeast thinned out more than Ansley the former bluejacket.

He turned to the stoat beside him in chains. "Those dead bluejacket comrades of yours, the ones from yesterday, they must be doing their job and scaring off the others from coming over here..." said Laurence with a laugh, "I knew it was going to be a good idea."

"Please," whimpered Ansley. "Just let me-let me go. I'll run far away from here and the others will never know."

Laurence shook his head. "But they would know. You know I can't do that, Ans. I'm sorry mate, but if they are going to take me seriously I need you here with me. Besides- if I let you run off, who's to say the army won't find you and kill you? ...or one of your former friends in blue, mistaking you for one of us?"

The chain on the haggard stoat's neck bobbed as he tried to hold back tears. "Please, mate... you won't always be there to protect me from your rebels... they don't ever have to know..."

Giving a stiff smile, Laurence snapped his claws. "Listen, mate. When the opportunity presents itself, I'll free you myself. I promise. You always said you wanted to see the rest of the world, right?"

Ansley's chains clinked together with each fervent nod.

"So we'll explore the world together, right? So when the time comes I will free you and we can leave this place togeth-"

Before he could finish making his case, the two of them caught sight of Tope Benwrath appearing from behind an abandoned inn. When the young stoat caught sight of them he ambled closer, stoic expression on his face.

"Laurence." said Tope before clearing his throat, "We need to talk."

 _Uh oh._ The otter stood tall and brought his face to an inscrutable expression in order to brace himself for the unpleasantries about to take place. "So let's talk, then."

The stoat's eyes flickered to the slave in between them, groveling on the floor. Laurence opened his mouth to ask if he wanted Ansley to be sent back to camp when Tope spoke. "I jus' wanted to- to apologize, fer questioning your orders. When we started this rebellion, we decided you'd be the best in leading the troops, since ye've seen battle before. So. Jus' thought I would say that."

Laurence clapped a paw on his friend's shoulder and afforded a smirk. "I knew you'd come around, Tope Benwrath! That I could rely on you to have my back when the time came."

"There's something else I've been needin' to tell ye-"

"Listen, I need you to walk Ansley back to the granary. Lock him up there, I'll need to go on another scouting mission-"

"-Two other members of the Snow Brigade left with August."

Laurence blinked. "What?"

"It's jus' you, me, Terkin, Gyffa an' Imber left. All the others are gone."

The rebel leader shook his head violently. "No. No, that's not true. I just saw Ymenia and Lief standing guard outside. Ha. Yes, they were standing right outside the granary..."

Now Tope shook his own. "Ymenia and Lief have been dead for almost a week, Laurence. They froze to death during a scouting mission... remember?"

Laurence felt the heat rise to his face.

"Listen, I'm starting to get concerned about ye, mate. All this talk of seein' dead folk- it's scaring the others. An' the way ye been movin' all stiff- an' no emotion with your face-"

Tope whispered more of his concerns but he did not hear them over the loud winds picking up. _No. They can't be dead._

"So you're calling me a liar- yes? Is that it? Listen to me- listen. I know they're alive. I saw them minutes ago. You know who is dead? August. Yes, he's dead as a doornail. And just like your brother En- Ennis."

Realizing his admission too late, the otter raised his eyes to meet Tope's. Pain and disbelief marked them, and the sinking feeling returned to Laurence's stomach.

He turned and fled from the roadway, leaving the two stoats behind.


	37. Don't Shoot Me Down

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Don't Shoot Me Down**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

 **The Following is a Substituted Post Written for Ander**

Ander followed in his new mentor's wake, trying his best to keep up and remain silent.

Judging by the direction their path took them, the weasel figured they were heading for either the Hall of Champions or the Upper Offices.

They ended up walking out into the open halls of the former, and the ferret king did not linger, instead bustling toward the room with the spiraling staircase at the other end. Ander took a moment to take in the new sights; the gladiator banners all roughly torn down, no more wandering denizens or new travelers, and perhaps most frightening- over the massive front doors, a warning - _written in blood_ \- for those who tried to leave or escape.

Still the same old Crucible and same old inhabitants. But with a different master.

 _Not again._ The sounds of lashing whips and intermittent screaming coming faintly from somewhere caused Ander to quicken his pace. _That's not happening, never again._

Ander kept his thoughts to himself, including questions about where they were headed. He knew better than to ask Vikkars anything- if there was one thing the ferret was good at, it was making somebeast feel small and worthless. Time after time, Ander watched creatures confront him, and it never worked. They ended up looking stupid, and that was if they were lucky.

Before long they ended up in the Upper Offices, and Vikkars stopped before a blue door. A pair of grim-faced bluejackets stood on both sides of the entryway. They did not stop the former prisoner when he stepped forward and pushed open the door.

Ander followed Vikkars inside. In the corner of the room behind a desk and clutching his head: the Crucible lord, Cain Seftis.

"Rise up, Seftis. I have more prerequisites on our treaty for you to sign." No response. Vikkars slammed his fist into the desk near the wildcat's head.

Cain stirred, and his claws accidentally swept several wine bottles onto the floor. He eyed the two new arrivals through squinting eyes, before growling in displeasure. "Leave me be. Can't you see I have much important work to do?"

"Your vices can wait. Read over the newest clauses and then I'll leave."

"I can look over them." Ander's eyes trailed over to the far end of the room. An unfamiliar silver-furred wildcat leaning on a cane faced him and Vikkars. "Leave them with me, and I'll sign whatever needs to be signed."

Vikkars gave a harsh laugh. "A signature from the Administrator of the Crucible? Do you really think I want the second-rate scrawlings of an infirm sibling?" He waved a claw at the frail figure. "Go back into the shadows and keep quiet. You are of no use to me any longer."

Hale laughed, though his eyes sharpened as he returned the ferret's stare. "Were you always this forgetful, or did the hooks in your scalp rob you of reason?" He swiped his claws against his chest. "I still recall signing the order to have that rejected sconce stapled to your head. That alone should be reminder enough of how much impact my 'scrawlings' have."

The laugh died within the ferret's throat, and the sound transmuted into a hiss between his fangs. "When the time comes, you will die. I will make sure of it."

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll be waiting for it." He reset his paws upon his cane and leaned against it. "Until then, shall we carry on with your 'clauses," or are you really going to sit there and posture at me?"

Snoring cut through the terse silence. Ander turned to see Cain Seftis fast asleep again. _How does that one sleep through all this racket?_ The weasel mused, almost wishing to be in the wildcat's unenlightened position.

The door behind them slowly creaked open. Ander recognized the newcomer as Kahmabutcha, the crazy volunteer gladiator. He tried to shrink behind the towering Iron King as the mongoose sauntered inside.

"Ayah! Seftis, ees who I wun to see. Te news on Marshankah, yeer favrit fighter ees back."

Hale turned to the bluejacket who entered with the mongoose. "What's he saying?"

"The Frostfang and his cronies have attacked our soldiers again. This time in the Atonement District. Hanged four more of our own, and the worst part of all is we have no information or any idea where they're hiding."

"They are hiding in the abandoned buildings, where else would they be?" Hale snorted. "It's a simple matter of flushing them out."

"We'll get it done, Administrator Seftis! On me mum's grave, we'll get it done. Lost one o' my close friends to him last morrow. Met him in the flesh once, I did, dumb as a rock, that one! We'll find him in no time."

Vikkars turned to face the lowly bluejacket. "You would be foolish to underestimate Copeland. He might be woefully ignorant of all else, but he's still an experienced battle commander."

The bluejacket quailed under both the piercing gazes of Hale Seftis and Drugaen Vikkars. "Er, I ain't doubtin' any o' that, Master Vikkars. It's jus'... how are we supposed t' find all o' them in so many buildings?"

Hale stacked his claws atop his cane before turning to look at each of the faces around him. "One way or another, each of us have our reasons for wanting Copeland dead. So let's make use of our most worthwhile instruments, wouldn't you agree, Vikkars?"

The ferret in question narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Hale took it as a sign to continue. "Kahmabutcha, you claim to be a renowned tracker and hunter in your homelands. And nobeast knows Laurence's fighting style better than yourself, given you beat him once already. Why don't you finish the job and take him out?"

Kamba nodded vehemently and launched forward, almost knocking Ander to the ground. "Ayah, yeew speakah te troof. I ees great warrior in homeland! In firelands, little ones haf no name. All te ledders in monkoozer name stand for one unbeliever I keel." He drew one of his daggers and cut into his palm, making a fist. "Ven I keel te Frostfang, I weel add another ledder to my name!"

The reply met with silence, and Ander almost made a sound of disgust at the blood hitting the ground before it caught in his throat. _I must be seen, not heard._ He reflexively rubbed at the bruises on his neck.

"Another corpse, another letter! Yes, all quite interesting. But surely you cannot go all alone- foot soldiers are needed to back you up once you do find them. A score of bluejackets should suffice, no?"

The Iron King slammed his fist into the nearby desk, waking Cain from his stupor. "There is no way in the name of Faek I'll let that happen-"

"But you will-"

"If this proves to be a trick-"

"Vikkars. Place your hatred aside for a moment and think rationally! We don't want this rebellion out in our stomping grounds as much as you do. Kahmabutcha cannot go alone. Safety in numbers, hmm?"

No response again. Hale turned back to the mongoose and gave a lethargic nod. Kamba bowed himself out of the room.

"As for you," Hale began, turning to face the bluejacket escort that remained, "Go and find Wimmick at the front entryway and tell him to join up with Kamba and the others when he is done addressing the… growing mob outside our gates."

The lowly bluejacket followed out the door after the mongoose.

"Now, then. Where were we?" Hale clasped his paws together and gave a smile.

~.~.~.~

Ander chewed in silence while watching empty cups and plates come and go.

The indentured servants of the Crucible's cooking staff bustled about, trying hard to keep the table clean and their new master happy.

At the far end of the table, in a tall regal chair easily out matching the others in height, sat the new Crucible Overseer. The ferret was dressed in a simple dark smock and leather jerkin, with metal greaves and gauntlets. He spoke of the future, and his plans for it.

While he spoke, he studied the faces of each creature at the table, especially the vixen sitting to Ander's right. She did not return the gaze.

"Yes. You will continue to paint, but not for these Crucible scullions, but for me!" To emphasize the point, Vikkars stabbed a hunk of woodpigeon meat with a curved knife and popped it in his mouth. "I require somebeast with an eye for detail to paint banners and flags. I want everybeast to feel their blood run cold at the sight of my symbol… the Drugaen family crest, adorned with thorns and a sword through the skull of a woodlander."

Still the fox said nothing, and instead chose to toy with her food. Ander noticed her cradling a medallion around her neck with her other paw. _I remember her... she used to come to the Drag and paint the walls. She looked happy then... it seems she finally realized what a terrible place this is._

When it looked as though she almost caught wind of his gaze, Ander flicked his eyes to the far corner of the room. There, a single chair facing the wall in the corner. Bloodstains marked the wall and on the floor, small pieces of… _Oh dear._ The weasel turned his attention back to the table.

"Your silence is disconcerting, Miss Rendai. I was hoping to hold a pleasurable conversation."

"I-I don't want to work for- for you."

"Let's make a deal. Surely you have somebeast you would like to see pay a price for their behavior towards you. I can make it happen."

The expectant pause was broken at the sounds of quiet laughing in the corner of the room. The ferret turned to face the squirrel servant holding his sides.

"What's the joke?"

Hearing the booming voice, the squirrel named Dain turned to face Ander, Vikkars and the rest of the aristocracy of Marshank.

"Er… I'm sorry for disturbin' all o' ye…"

"Come closer and tell us the joke, scullion."

"R-really?" Dain closed the gap and stood a couple feet away from the table. "If you insist, m'lord." He cleared his throat. "What sits at the-"

"Closer, scullion. My hearing is not so good these days." Vikkars tapped the side of his skull with the knife in his claws, never changing his blank expression. "I want to hear what was so funny."

Dain stood beside the edge of the table, very close to the new Crucible lord. "A'right. What sits at the bottom of the sea and twitches?"

Vikkars pursed his lips tightly and narrowed both eyes. "What."

"A nervous wre-"

The short dagger pierced through the squirrel's jaw. His eyes widened and he coughed, soaking his attacker with a current of blood. A couple creatures in the audience screamed as Dain collapsed to the floor and tried to crawl away.

Vikkars was upon him in an instant, stabbing the servant over and over with the tiny dagger, his thunderous laughing carving over the screams. Only after the victim stopped moving did he stop ravaging the body.

"Finally, somebeast with a sense of humor around here! What a funny joke!"

Everybeast looked onward in fright at the bloodsoaked mustelid, cleaning the blade on the deceased squirrel's tunic.

Just as quickly as the smiling and laughing came, it was gone. Vikkars' face turned back to a scowl and he looked at Ander right in the eyes. "Help me escort Miss Rendai out. We're going for a short walk outside. As for the rest of you, think about what you have just seen."

"Y-Yessir," Ander croaked, turning green. "Right away."

~.~.~.~

Night settled over the arctic landscape, and a freezing fog blanketed the Crucible courtyard. Snow falling in every direction.

Two bluejackets both hefted an unconscious, hulking fox between them. Ander was tasked with following them while escorting a bound and terrified vixen with a bag over her face.

Vikkars awaited them in a regal throne chair, overlooking the flat and open yard center. Upon seeing the group arrive, he pointed to the opposite edge of the yard. "Over there." When Ander attempted to follow after them, Vikkars placed his claws against the weasel to keep him in place.

Walking further down, the bluejacket soldiers set the fox down against the snowy stone floor.

"Place this on the ground next to him."

One of the bluejackets took the quarterstaff from the ferret's claws. They faced the leering ferret. "Now wake him up."

He gulped. Looking down at the creature before him the bluejacket cautiously poked at the sleeping creature with the stick. After a solid minute of using the tool to prod the creature, finally the fox started coming around.

"Salutations, Sorel Rendai! Glad you could join us." said Vikkars.

Standing to his footpaws, the fox took in his surroundings while crossing his arms against his bare chest. "What. Is. This."

"Your moment of judgment is here. Pick up the staff."

Vikkars nodded to Ander, who removed the bag from the vixen's face. Again she tried to wrest free from the weasel's tight grip but failed. For a moment, she stopped moving, and her gaze locked with the that of the other fox across the yard.

Another prisoner, this one with both paws completely bound and defenseless, was brought out from the entryway behind Vikkars.

"Your choice, Rendai: take the prisoner's life, or he'll take your own."

Sorel's face tore through a multitude of emotions. Ander watched with horrified curiosity- or was it a sick fascination?- as the fox slowly picked up the quarterstaff. The vixen in his grasp finally stopped struggling and gave a muted whimper.

A terse silence followed, and Ander could hear each step in the snow toward the other prisoner. It took all his self control not to lift his paws and block out his eyes. _He's not going to kill him... is he?_

Standing before them, Sorel raised his staff. The air trembled and the sky erupted with the sounds of wood smacking flesh. Hit after hit, over and over again. The bound prisoner could do nothing but accept their fate, and Ander watched as Sorel Rendai chose his own.

The weasel turned to see his mentor, leaning forward intently in his chair, watching with a wide-eyed macabre enthusiasm.

"Please… we must stop him…" Ander faced the vixen wrapped in his claws, "Things'll only grow worse if we don't. He's-he's a monster..."

A bluejacket jabbed her in the stomach with the butt-end of his spear and she fell to the ground in agony. Feeling his hackles rise, Ander saw the vicious looking burn marks along her forearms. _It's a nightmare._ Ander clamped his eyes shut. _Nothing like this could truly be real._

Finished with his despicable task, the heaving Sorel dropped the bloodied staff on the ground.

Vikkars clapped. "A cold-blooded monster! What a grand display of exact barbarity! Your basest, truest nature has shown itself. Consider me impressed." The ferret smirked. "But because you killed an innocent outside of the Crucible arena, and therefore must pay the ultimate price: death."

The vixen on the ground cried out again, and a bluejacket kicked her in the side.

"Lock him up with the rest of the monsters, in the lower level dungeons." Ander watched while the bluejackets took the fox away. Vikkars stood to his foot paws and addressed the vixen on the group. "Miss Rendai. I hope you enjoyed the show. Accompany me for a short walk."

"I-I think she's had enough trouble for one day…"

The words hung heavy in the air.

Vikkars turned to face Ander, and the weasel's blood ran cold.

"What? Oh, all I mean is- she just saw her husband m-murder somebeas-"

Ander saw the metal gauntlet far too late. The force of the blow knocked him to the snowy ground and a fusillade of blood came oozing from his mouth and cheek.

He feebly clutched the injury and felt the weight of an iron boot press down against his chest. Ander gasped for air as the words cut over him: "Don't question me again."

"Ah- ah…" The weasel could not register the words. He held his face with both paws, trying desperately to keep the skin from splitting. _My face... my beautiful face…_ "I'm sorry."

Vikkars turned away, walking into the snowy fog. Cuprica Rendai unwillingly followed, a pair of bluejackets touting her.


	38. Advent

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Advent**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _My time has taught me that all beasts are doomed to suffer, in their own way. Suffering is but a spectre that wears a different skin for each of us. Disease, tragedy, loss-from Mossflower to Marshank, woodlander and vermin, these pains find us._

 _The shame of suffering is not in its presence. It is in the beast who kneels to that spectre, who sets down his broken shield and bends his neck for the slaughter._

 _That is a shame that can never be wiped clean._

 _~.~.~.~_

"Begin, then. Tell me everything."

And so Bechtel did. Reading the pages of his memory on the desk's carvings, he told the rat all, from his time aboard Tiltsnout's ship, to his meeting with Molly, to his discovery of a plot for freedom. Hours spun quickly by the light of his tale, the fresh oil in the lantern growing old and wane. Sickness and strain crackled his voice, and the closer he reached into the past, the greater the ache within him.

Across from him, Whip offered no commentary or interjection. Only thrice did he halt the bat, each time raising a paw before disappearing into the further room and returning with a cup of honeyed tea. Throughout it all, he remained wordless. He lay like a statue upon the edge of the cot, scarred brow molded in concentration.

When Bechtel finished recounting his story, and its myriad details, Whip raised a paw and ran it across his chin. Still, he said nothing.

Bechtel reached for the half-empty cup, long-since cooled. "Did you find what you—?"

"Ssh!" Whip hissed, holding up a paw. "I'm thinking…"

In the silence, Bechtel drank the last of the tea, down to the coalesced gob of honey settled on the bottom. He stared at the cup. With his story told and his part played, he wondered why he bothered to care for himself further.

 _To ensure Ander's freedom,_ he told himself. He realized that the rat could kill him now and pretend their deal never existed, but he had no other option. He had to trust in Whip's word of honor, and he would carry himself through to see it to the end.

"Hale's feast."

Bechtel jumped at the sudden speech. A click told him of the rat's shifted posture, of the rubbing paws and eager gaze, as if beholding a new approach on some long-wrought puzzle.

"Never agreed with Wimmick's suggestion of Ryetail poisoning the cat. Looks like my intuition is as sharp as I thought." He nodded. "And it makes so much sense. That weasel jumping onto the table—it was all a distraction for you, wasn't it? Pity you failed."

"But I didn't. I used the entire vial."

Whip snapped his fingers. "Exactly. By all accounts, you didn't. Yet our friend the Administrator is on his way to a speedy, miraculous recovery." He paced about the room, paws clasped sharply behind him. "And how did Quintock get this poison in her claws?"

Bechtel clicked and studied his carvings once more. He focused on a double-story building, with the dark of a hundred of scratches enshrouding the three figures within. He could feel the cold of the vial in his claws once more, and he listened as Molly spoke of her plan, of orders from the outside to kill Hale.

"Someone on the outside. She called him a benefactor." He furrowed his brow. "She never spoke his name. …in fact, I don't think she knew who he was." He remembered the elder mouse Orban's words during the clandestine meeting in the Crucible, and his frown deepened. "…none of them seemed to. Yet he's the reason they all came together, which doesn't—"

A bark of a laugh cut him off. Across from him, Whip bent double, a gutborn guffaw issuing against the shake of his body. He slapped his paws together as if heralding a curtain call. "Oh, bravo, you clever cat! Vulpuz be proud!"

Bechtel coughed and steadied himself against the rat's outburst. "What… what do you mean?"

"Can't you see it? It all comes down to this benefactor. The beast clever enough to run circles around my guard, smart enough to inspire a rebellion, and influential enough to get poison past any checks." His smile deepened. "And this beast even had a plan to pin everything on an unsuspecting noble. After all, who could deny a drawerful of treason, signed with their very name?"

Bechtel's eyes widened. "Wait… you're saying _Hale_ was the benefactor? But, that would mean—"

"That he poisoned himself." He shook his head, his mirth turning bitter and strained. "Who could doubt the sincerity of the sickly Seftis, having narrowly avoided death? Not a single beast cast a glance his way. I even let my guard down, and now look at me: discarded, while that damn cat worms his way further into Cain's good graces!"

"So what does this mean?"

Whip folded his arms with a huff. "It means we found why Hale wanted you dead." He stroked his chin. "Now, I just proof to show Lord Cain. Hale hasn't been faking his illness, and the physicians assured me it was hemlock. He must have watered down the dose, but even then, he'd have to build a tolerance to it. He would need a supplier, then, but one without a paper trail. He'd be too smart for that…"

"We're done, right?" Bechtel interrupted, prompting Whip to glance his way. "I gave you what you wanted. Now it's your turn."

Whip waved a paw. "Your friend can wait. Hale's influence grows stronger by the day. It could be only hours before he makes his next mo—"

A crash of wood drew both of their attentions. Rapid footsteps echoed above them, descending with such speed to sound like the buzz of some giant insect. The door to the kitchen slammed open, and a gasping Gromo nearly fell upon the ground.

"C-Cap'n!" he wheezed, supporting himself against the counter. Bechtel clicked, but saw no signs of injury on the beast. Only wild-eyed panic.

Whip darted to his subordinate, not bothering to shut and lock the door behind him. "What is it, Gromo?" With only breathless wheezes as his answer, Whip smacked the other rat upon the cheek. "Calm yourself and speak! Have more guards fallen? Are the faithful still with us?"

Gromo shook his head vigorously and pointed a trembling claw behind him. "A-a-army!" he managed to cry.

Whip straightened and his tail went still. Shoving past Gromo, he dashed through the rooms, his furious steps carrying him up a stairway. Gromo stumbled to a nearby barrel, slapped the lid off, and dunked his head into the pungent drink.

Against the nausea swimming at the edges of his awareness, Bechtel staggered forth from the room towards the guard rat.

"What do you mean 'army'? "

Gromo pulled up from the barrel, gasping for air. He swiped a paw at the river of ale streaming down his chin. " 'Sactly what I said. Bloody army on the horizon!"

The rat returned to slaking his dried throat, paying no further heed to the bat. Bechtel passed him by, exiting the kitchen and climbing his way up the simple-slat stairway leading out of the compound. Catching himself against the doorframe leading to the outside, he clicked.

 _A lone, unassuming shack on the outskirts of the city,_ the echoes told him, sweeping first around his immediate surroundings. _Whip lies at the top of an notched pole, a spyglass in his paws. He has a view of the entire city, but he looks elsewhere, towards—_

The evaluation ended as the echoes reached further, past the watching rat, past the distant roads smothered by untrodden snow, past the winter-dead trees edging the marshlands.

As a child, Bechtel always quivered in fear whenever Atrus spoke of the hordes. Crowds of evil beasts haunted his nightmares well past childhood. The miracle of a brave few goodbeasts overcoming insurmountable odds never ceased to amaze him, for how could so few stand against so many?

He realized now that his nightmares had been kind.

A mass of beasts stood against the horizon, congealed together in a solid line. He could not even see their shadows against the falling sun, but the echoes told him of each and every beast. They wore no uniform, as the guards of Marshank did, nor any emblems to declare their allegiance or origin. The rough-hewn iron spoke for them, forged without grace, gouged by war, worn like skin. Spears and swords lay drawn in ready paws, though not a beast moved forward.

Bechtel tried to count them. Fifty. One-hundred. Two-hundred. Hundreds more stretched beyond the reach of his voice, and he wondered if there was ever an end to them.

He heard Whip drop from his lookout post, and the rat stomped his way back towards the hut. He grabbed Bechtel's shoulder, shoving the bat down the stairway and back into the kitchen. The world swam, even when he collapsed to the ground to steady the spinning.

"What do we do, Cap'n?" Gromo asked, the panic still in his voice.

Bechtel heard Whip yank something from a shelf, followed by the crash of clay and wood on the floor around him.

"Gather supplies." His voice issued calm and sharp, unmarred by any emotion save for urgency. "Dry goods only, and whatever fills a beast up the most. The Crucible's larders are well-stocked, but not if we have to support the town as well."

"We're goin' back t' the Crucible? C-Cap'n, didn't yew see how many there—"

"I saw fools looking to challenge the might of Marshank," Whip snarled. "Hale may think he's won, but Cain will not abide an army. I will force a confession and surrender from that cat's lips, and then I will let Lord Cain plunge a dagger into his brother's black heart. Marshank has abided enough of these games."

The swirling lessened, and Bechtel pulled himself to his feet. "You gave me your word, Whip."

"And I will _keep_ it," Whip snapped. "I have a siege to prepare for. That weasel can wait."

Bechtel slapped a burlap sack from the rat's paws. "No. Once the food runs low, they'll send the slaves out to their death. Is _that_ the Crucible's justice?" He jabbed a wavering claw at the rat. "You promised me his _freedom,_ not his death."

Whip's tail lashed in wild arcs, and his breath came out like spurts of steam. "Fine," he growled. "I'll make the time for it." He reached down and tossed the sack at Bechtel, heavy enough to send the bat staggering back into a wall. "But you'll help pull your weight."

~.~.~.~

Silence punctuated the hour-long journey into the heart of Marshank, broken only by their footfalls and Bechtel's occasional cough. Neither wind nor snow leveled their wrath upon the languid streets. Day-old pawprints carved their way along the towlines connecting the buildings, yet the streets remained barren. Few of the passing windows glowed with firelight.

The combination of it all lent an eeriness to the world. Bechtel ignored the feeling, concentrating only on each step ahead of him. His body churned with revived aches, and the sack he carried – though it contained less than half of Gromo and Whip's provisions – felt like a millstone. He asked to stop and rest twice, and was granted time only once. The trio gathered their breath and Whip considered their bearings.

"Why would Hale send an army against his brother?" Bechtel asked, if not only to break the silence around them. "Why do any of this?"

Whip leaned against the corner of a building. "Not the first time he's tried to overthrow Lord Cain. I told Cain to kill him when he had the chance. Seems exile only made him more cunning."

"Exile?"

"To the untamed North, where the marsh lies deep and the toads rul. Most beasts thought it was a death sentence. Even Lord Cain did. But then Hale returned five years later, 'reformed.' After his sisters succumbed to a passing sickness, Lord Cain had mercy on his sole-surviving sibling. Didn't take long for beasts to forget about Hale's treachery."

Gromo nodded. "Aye, that were about th' time o' my recruitment. If it weren't fer th' Cap'n, I'd never have guessed how bad a beast Hale was."

Whip's scowl deepened. "And to repay his brother's kindness, Hale plots in the shadows and sends for his ill-gotten allies."

"Allies?" Gromo raised a brow. "What d' ye mean, Cap'n?"

"The armor on those beasts. It's Northern-make."

"Does it matter?" Bechtel asked, prompting Whip and Gromo to both shoot him a look. "If Hale wins, I mean. You said the Crucible is justice—does it matter who's master over it?"

Whip scoffed. "Wouldn't expect you to understand. The Crucible is pure, but it can be tainted, same as any of us. Lord Cain understands this. He has brought more beasts into the Crucible than any of his forefathers. Marshank has grown strong under his rule. But Hale… Hale has already begun to corrupt his mind with these visions of a reconstructed Crucible. Suites for the nobility, seating for the commonfolk, and those ridiculous paintings." He spat. "An insult to the Crucible's honor."

Bechtel considered this, but before he could respond, Whip pulled his sack back over his shoulder.

"You've had enough time."

They set off once more. Snow began to fall with increasing intensity, a shrill whistle heard all around them. Through chattering teeth, Bechtel clicked his tongue to keep sight of his guides, but movement to his side caught his attention.

A beast, half-fallen into the snow, stared at him. It was an otter. Confusion broke before bewilderment as Bechtel realized he recognized the beast.

 _Laurence?_

The otter stood back up and disappeared into an alleyway. A curtain of snow blocked any further echoes from reaching the beast.

 _I thought Whip said Laurence had been killed._

Bechtel stepped to face the rat, but collided into the back of Gromo. The rat made no reaction, standing stock still.

"Bloody heels," Gromo whispered, raising a paw to his mouth. "Lookit, Cap'n. Damn murderers got another one."

Bechtel clicked, letting the sound scour the snowdrifted landscape. He saw it across from them—a fox hanging limp upon a towline, arms strung to the wire. Their head tilted too far to the left, like a doll whose seams had split. Their eyes lay open in terror, frosted over with ice, while a congealed mass of blood streaked across a gash in their neck.

When the initial shock faded, Bechtel realized that the beast was wearing a jacket.

" _Another one."_ Bechtel recalled Whip's first words when Gromo came rushing into the underground hideaway: _"Have more guards fallen?"_

This was not the first guard murdered like this. Bechtel spun around, clicking twice. The echoes scurried about through the surrounding alleyways and potential hiding spots, but he found no sight of Laurence.

A paw on his shoulder snapped him from his thoughts. Breathing hard, he focused on Whip standing beside him.

"This is why Hale can't rule the Crucible." The rat's voice lay deep, rumbling with the danger of an approaching thunderstorm. "Madness like this."

Unsure what to think or say - or if he should say anything at all - Bechtel settled for a nod. He reset his grip on the sack and resumed walking behind the pair. The image of the frozen corpse remained in his mind long after they left.

~.~.~.~

On the approach to Justice Road, he heard the first sounds of life: the distant rumble of frantic murmurs, the pierce of tears dripping up into the air, the bark of orders crackling above them both. They stepped onto the Road, and the trio stopped.

The sea of Justice Road churned with the fear of a hundred beasts, all gathered before the Crucible's gates. A line of guards pushed the more frantic beasts back while one beast stood upon a makeshift podium of crates and barrels, shouting declarations to the crowd.

"Vulpuz strike me," Gromo whispered. "Serpose all of Marshank knows about the army, now."

"And now we've got a riot on our paws," Whip snarled.

"Is that Wimmick, up there?" Gromo squinted his eyes at the beast atop the podium.

Whip didn't answer. He adjusted the sack over his shoulder while his other paw freed the scourge from his hip, then he trudged off towards the Crucible's gates.

"What's he doing?" Bechtel asked, taking the moment to gather his breath.

"Dunno, mate," Gromo muttered. "But best t' stick by his side. C'mon."

Bechtel felt a paw loop around his shoulders, stabilizing his wobbling steps. He nodded his thanks, and the pair slowly made their way after the raging captain.

By the time they reached back of the crowd, a crack shot overtop the noise, silencing the whimpers and orders alike. Bechtel clicked, and watched as the crowd parted. Whip strode forward unimpeded, eyes locked on his former deputy on the podium.

"I see you're doing a good job in my absence, Wimmick," Whip's thunderous snarl reverberated under the stomp of his approach. "Bravo."

Wimmick's eyes widened. "Captai—" He shook his head, straightening up with renewed composure. "Whip. What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping to have a calm discussion with Lord Cain, but now I see I'll have to fix your bloody mistakes while I'm at it."

"Captain Whip!" A weaselmaid stepped forth from the crowd, held back only by the grip of a nearby guard. "They're not letting us into the Crucible! They say there's an army, and—"

Another crack snapped into the air, followed by a cry. The weaselmaid collapsed onto her tail, a paw shivering by a fresh cut on her shoulder.

"No interruptions," Whip said, casting look at all the surrounding beasts before focusing once more on Wimmick. "I need to speak with Lord Cain. Now."

Wimmick's paws tightened by his side. "Lord Cain has declared a state of emergency." He faced the crowd once more. "He is in negotiation with the leader of this army now, and will come to a peaceful resolution. However, we urge you to seek shelter at the nearest indicated stronghold, and for the strong and able to—"

Whip cracked his scourge again. "You didn't hear me, Wimmick. Get me an audience with Lord Cain."

"I… can't do that." A small wince accompanied the words, as if the beast expected a lash in response.

"And why not?"

"Administrator Hale specifically said you're not to be admitted." When no lash came, Wimmick straightened up further. "Under no circumstances."

For a moment, Whip simply regarded the rat on the podium. Then he stepped forward. "What's Hale promised you, Wimmick? Position in his new kingdom? How much did it take for you to break your vows to your Lord?"

Wimmick blinked twice, then stammered out, "What are you talking about, Whip?"

"Don't play dumb." He gestured at the crowd. "That's what this is, isn't it? Terrify the people, cast them from the Crucible, and hold them hostage once the army descends."

Frightened murmurs rose, spreading the rat's words like a virus to those outside of earshot.

"Is it true?" a mouse demanded, paws locked around the shoulders of two young dibbuns.

"Cain promised me safety!" a ferret cried, clawing the sleeves of his fine suit into ribbons.

Echoes of both statements rose from the crowd, the fear and tension peeling free to bleed in the air.

Wimmick's lip twitched, his eyes flicking about the shuddering beasts. "Whip, I'm warning you," he said, voice barely heard over the rumble of the crowd. "Leave now. Go to the Arbington, bring these beasts some confidence. It'll do more to help your standing with Lord Cain than this foolishness."

"Slit your tongue, traitor," Whip snarled. "You're just a pup pretending on a pedestal."

Wimmick's paw inched to his sword. Whip saw this, and Bechtel saw more. The rocks readied in the paws of the crowd. The tension of the guard as they called for peace, but lowered their spears.

"Stop him," Bechtel said, turning to Gromo. "Stop him now."

"Cap'n knows what he's doin—"

Bechtel hooked a claw into Gromo's shirt. "They're going to _kill_ him if he continues. I need him alive!"

Gromo slapped the claw away with a scowl, but shot a look to his captain. His expression faltered, yet he remained still. Scowling, Bechtel dropped his sack and shoved his way past the remaining layers of the crowd.

Whip tilted his arm back to strike the blow that would set the crowd ablaze.

Bechtel jumped, colliding with the rat and sending the pair of them tumbling into the crowd. He lost his grip on the rat, and the two of them disappeared underneath the revived jeers of the multitude. His vision spun long after he felt the ground beneath him still. He attempted to push himself up on his knees, but only succeeded in falling back to the snow with a ragged series of coughs.

The crowd showed little sign of acknowledging the bat, their attention focused entirely now on stoking the fire of the rat's flint-struck words. Past them, Bechtel saw movement.

 _Whip is on his feet. A knife in his paw,_ the shuddering echoes told him. _He comes for you._

He felt a paw flip him on his back, and through the blur of his vision, he saw a glimmer of metal.

"There's another way!" he choked out between coughs, the words coming out before he had time to think them through.

The blade lay suspended in the air. "…what?"

Bechtel's gaze flicked from the blade to the rat. "A-another way into the Crucible." He recalled the mess hall, the conversation with Ander, the mention of an escape route unknown to any of the guards. "I can get you in to see Cain and stop Hale."

It was a half-truth. Ander had spoken of a patched hole within the Crucible's walls, but Bechtel had never seen it. Whether it still remained, or ever existed, he did not know.

Whip's lip quivered with already-stoked anger. "You're only telling me this now?"

"I didn't know you wouldn't be let in. You didn't, either!"

Whip flexed his grip on the dagger. He shot a look to the crowd around them, and the guards beyond. Wimmick returned to assuaging the ire of the crowd, only casting the briefest of looks Whip's way.

"If this is you stalling…"

"It's not. All I need is some rope and I can get the both of you in."

"Cap'n!" Gromo cried, pushing his way past the other beasts. "Cap'n, are you all right?"

Whip's whiskers twitched. He straightened up and slid his dagger back through his belt. "Get the bat up. We're leaving."

"What 'bout th' supplies?" Gromo asked, hefting up both his and Bechtel's sack.

Whip glanced at his own discarded burlap bag. He stepped to it, pulled a length of rope free, then grabbed the shoulder of a finely-dressed hare. "You. What's your name?"

The hare looked him up and down. "Gervaise."

Whip gestured to the sack. "Take these provisions to the Arbington. Speak with Emery and tell him Captain Whip sent you, and to prepare for war. Board up the windows and entrances with anything you can find."

"Why in the blood-soaked North would I do that?" the hare huffed.

Whip's grip tightened. "Because you're not getting into the Crucible tonight." His lips curled with a smile. "And once you show up at the Arbington with supplies and a plan, those beasts will practically put you in charge of the place."

The hare's frown slowly disappeared. "I… see your point." He turned, whistled for the attention of several nearby beasts and gestured to the sacks.

Whip left them behind and stepped beside Gromo and Bechtel. "Lead the way, bat."

~.~.~.~

The roar of the crowd faded to a whisper as they skirted the outside of the Crucible. Gromo supported Bechtel's flagging steps, while Whip trailed a few paces behind them. He hadn't said a word since the altercation at the gates, and his scarred brow was perpetually knit.

Bechtel paid him little attention, however, clicking every few steps and scouring the wall for signs of the barred hole Ander had mentioned. Scaffolds lined the walls in irregular patterns, only serving to complicate his search of the walls.

The further they walked, the harder his heart pounded in his chest. Ander's salvation lay in his claws, in finding a way into the Crucible, yet he began to wonder if he'd misheard. Perhaps Ander was mistaken, and there was no exit at all.

"Thank ye, by the way."

Gromo's voice broke the bat from his thoughts. "For what?"

"Fer savin' th' Cap'n." He cast a look over his shoulder towards Whip before continuing. "Been thinkin', an' yew were right. Weren't no good solution t' that mess, an' the Cap'n prolly woulda died." He shrugged. "So… thanks."

"I didn't do it for his sake."

"Well, no matter why ye did it, t'were the right thing."

Bechtel clicked, letting the echoes scour the massive wall once more. He saw nothing, and so he returned his attention to the rat. "…do you believe him?"

"Hrm?"

"About the Crucible. That the beasts there deserve to be there, and that their judgment is just."

Gromo pursed his lips and made a great show of thought. "Dunno, mate," he finally. "Cap'n certainly believes it. It's why he set up all those hideouts in town."

Bechtel thought back to the underground complex. "There are more of those?"

"Oh aye. Were th' bread an' biscuits of his whole operation in Marshank. Shame Lord Cain threw him out 'cause of it. Only had the best interests o' the Crucible in mind."

"...what do you mean?"

"Well, Lord Cain'd been upset at how few slaves were comin' in from the trade. Bad fer business, so th' Cap'n decided to help out. Said beasts that ended up in th' Crucible were due t' come anyhow, so he set up some some checkpoints to look fer beasts wanderin' th' streets." He nodded to himself. "A righteous cause, he said it were, an' it worked 'til Hale had t' spoil th' whole thing."

A chill trickled down Bechtel's spine. Was this the justice of the Crucible? One creature stealing away random beasts, just to impress their ruler with a show of numbers?

The sick feeling – the spiraling sort of despair that transcended physical discomfort – returned to him. With it came an image: an open wound in the Crucible wall, high above them beside a length of scaffolding. Lopsided boards patch it shut, but not tightly enough to remove all sight of the halls that waited within.

"Halt."

Bechtel jumped at Whip's voice, whirling to face the rat striding towards him.

"We've walked far enough. Where is this entrance?"

Bechtel did not respond immediately. He studied the former captain's face.

This was not justice. It couldn't be. The Crucible festered with rot, and Whip's actions only fed into it. If the rat had lied about the Crucible - lied about Laurence's death - what would stop him from lying about freeing Ander? How could he trust the rat to fulfill any deal at all?

A paw on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. He staggered back, breathing hard, but Whip's grip kept him close.

"Answer me." He pulled his dagger free. "The truth, or I'll see your judgment handed out now."

Bechtel's heart hammered at the sight of the dagger. He believed the rat's threat fully, and moreover, knew that Ander's fate lay in his own claws now.

"Er, Cap'n," Gromo said, voice thin and careful, "this cully's burnin' wit' fever, an' has had a rough run o' it. Mayhaps we can give him a bit o' leewa—"

Whip held up a paw. "The entrance, bat."

With no other choice before him, Bechtel gestured with his wing. "It's here."

Whip followed his wing, eyes squinting against the steady snowfall.

"Cor…" Gromo breathed. "Be a jolly long way up, innit?"

Bechtel felt something rough shoved against his chest.

"The rope," Whip said. "Fly up there and attach it."

"W-what?" Bechtel stammered. "I can't possibly-"

"These walls weren't built to be scaled, bat. You'll fly up there, or you'll die here."

Bechtel shook his head, staggering backwards. The heaviness of his shoulders and the sickness in his gut seemed to double at once.

"Cap'n…"

Whip cut Gromo off with a raised paw. He drew in a breath, the hardness of his expression softening. "I can't free your friend if I'm not in the Crucible." He held out the rope again. "Do your part."

"How… how can I trust you?" Bechtel muttered.

"There's no one else left to trust. But if you don't get me in there, that weasel _will_ die."

Bechtel ran a claw against the sweat-melted snow on his brow. He gazed at his wings, one scabbed over and only partly healed, the other a fresh, mangled mess of patchwork repair. He looked at the scaffolding above-an easy flight any other season, suddenly now daunting and impossible.

And yet, Whip was right. Either he flew and Ander had a chance to live, or he didn't, and Ander was without hope.

He took the rope from Whip and looped it around his neck.

"Can ye make it?" Gromo asked in a small voice. "Practically had t' carry ye the last mile…"

"Just keep your promise," Bechtel said, blinking his eyes hard to push back the waves of nausea set upon him.

With one step forward, Bechtel jumped.

Searing, excruciating pain carved through him like a knife drenched in boiling blood. He was in a void, a world absent from all but agony. Screaming, he fell from the void, colliding into the snow. Spots flooded his vision as he squirmed, curling into a ball.

He felt a pair of paws grabbing at him.

"He can't make it, Cap'n! There's gotta be anothe-"

"No!" Bechtel roared, growling against the pain and the dizziness. "I can do this!"

He barely saw through the chaos of pain clouding his every sense, but Whip nodded.

"Get him up."

Gromo helped him to his feet and held him steady as he staggered, choking back bile.

 _I have to do this. I have to set things right._

Bechtel pushed himself from Gromo, clamped his jaw shut, and set his mind solely on reaching the scaffold. Then he flew into the void.

Nerves flayed in two, threes. Staples ripping, craving passage through his skin. A wind of needles and knives, stabbing and prying.

He pushed further.

Nothing. Nothing to know but the senseless pain rending every sense mute. He was blind, lost in a world without return.

And he fell.

He crashed into snow sobbing, interrupted only by the heaving of his stomach against the torture piercing through his body. Minutes seemed like hours, seemed like days. Eventually, the void released its grip on him, and he felt once more the cold of the world around him. He felt bile against his chin and tried to push himself up, but his limbs had no more strength.

He said nothing, waiting for Whip to come and pull him up once more. He felt no paw around his collar, but he heard a voice on the wind, somewhere far beneath him.

"Mother o' a pike, he did it!" Gromo howled out a cheer.

Bechtel flexed his claws and felt no earth-but a hard surface beneath him.

 _I made it._

"Get that rope tied!" Whip ordered, cutting through the combating whirl of shock and pain.

Against a weight unlike any other he'd ever felt, Bechtel shoved himself up onto his knees and crawled over to the edge of the scaffolding. Clicking his tongue weakly, he spotted a sturdy pole on the edge and pulled the rope free from around his neck.

 _Focus,_ he told himself, trying to rid his mind of the dizzying haze, but it refused to leave.

His claws worked with the sluggish distance of a vanishing dream. Every action - every pull and loop of the rope - seemed to pull him further away from the cold world and into a growing darkness that called him.

The rope slipped from his grip. He felt it uncoil, spiraling downwards off the edge. Slamming his wing down, he stopped the rope and began to pull it back up.

 _Stay awake!_ he screamed inwardly.

He attempted to start another knot.

 _If you fail here, Ander dies._

The end of the rope trembled in his weakening grip.

 _If you fail here, there's nothing left._

He no longer felt the cold. The rough texture of the rope faded more and more into the encroaching darkness.

 _It has to be worth it. It has to mean something._

The darkness enveloped him, and all was nothing.


	39. Philosopher King

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Philosopher King**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

Another wisp, and this time Laurence could swear he smelled something burning on the wind.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment he thought he was back home in Helmsford- in the Temple of Temptations. Once more facing a creature's greatest weaknesses and follies, facing the temporary pleasantries of the mortal coil, before venturing into the great beyond.

To the right came his mother's urgent voice, reminding him of the cardinal virtues and their tenants. The young otter recalled how he would discard the advice and instead focus on his father's sentiments- how anything would start to look promising in the face of eternity.

His wandering led him astray, much too far from the settlement. He only took notice hours later when a snowstorm tore through the white countryside and clouds obscured the sun.

 _All I wanted to do was help these folks._ The otter felt so cold he could not even muster up tears. The neck injury seared from the intensity of the weather. _Have I failed to protect them yet again? Why do I put myself through all of this._

Dredging through events of the past brought Laurence back to the feast many days ago and he saw each of The Culling survivors -Ander, Ryetail, Dain, Tope- each of their faces materialized before him, clear as day.

 _They avoided death from the Culling. But they would have died in the arena eventually, if you did not stand up for them. But it never made a difference._

 _Did it really make a difference?_

Tope Benwrath's life was saved by Laurence. Even if everything else failed, he still made an impact in one creature's life.

 _And now he loathes me._

Finally he opened his eyes, and a single tear fell from his face. Without any time to waste, the otter approached the top of the nearest hill, to gather his bearings.

Another revelation and perhaps more frightening- the rebel leader recalled the fact that his hide was worth its weight in money and he left behind his safety in numbers. And on the subject of money, If Laurence had the coin to make such a bet, he would figure that the army would use the new-arriving storm to advance forward... undetected. It's what he would do, if he were the commander of the army.

The sound of heavy footfalls ahead.

Laurence reached behind him for Sondern, and grasped thin air. His chest constricted.

A cluster of dark figures on the hill across from the one where he stood. To his relief, Laurence realized that as they grew more disparate that they only numbered three.

Still, he audibly gasped when he realized their identities.

The former Captain of the Bluejackets, Whip, leading the party of three. Just a few paces behind him came another familiar-looking rat dressed in tattered blue. Yet most surprising of all, bringing up the rear, was none other than _Bechtel the bat._

Laurence did not believe it. _Perhaps a trick on the eyes?_ He pawed at his eyes, but still the bat walked before him.

 _He's alive... He's not dead after all._

Following in their wake, the otter pondered why Bechtel would be working with a pair of bluejackets. _Blackmail, maybe? No. He wears no chains, and still he follows._

Laurence noted with confusion that the trio marched back toward Crucible. _What in the Fates is going on here?_

He tried to pick up the pace in order to catch up to them but tripped into a snow drift. While he hoisted himself out of the snow he swore he saw the bat turn and face him. The otter froze in place. An expression of... bewilderment stamped on Bechtel's face.

The rebel leader locked eyes with his for but a moment, before the white engulfed them entirely.

 _Could they heading back to free all the slaves? Or maybe assassinate Vikkars?_

An internal gnawing of the mind, questions left unanswered. Laurence hated the feeling, but perhaps his purpose in life did not require knowing their secrets. They had their own mission, and he had his. He needed to find a way back to the other Snow Brigaders, and warn them of the army's impending advance.

The Fates held for him a purpose, and soon he would know their complete intentions for him.

~.~.~.~

He found himself again, back among the settlement, cold sheets of ice numbing the claws wrapped around the wire.

And while on the way back to the same street he abandoned his pair of friends, the rebel leader saw one of his followers running in the distance. Laurence tried yelling to them but they did not hear him over the strong gusts of wind.

Laurence returned to the granary, to find the place cleared out and picked clean. The only signs of life he could find were remnants of ash and soot from a fire. Perhaps they went out looking for him? Where was Ansley?

 _Ansley._ The otter's blood ran cold. For the first time, he left the prisoner alone with the other rebels. He picked up an abandoned pike and hurried over to the closet room the stoat was usually kept in, and upon entering, found the place to be just as barren. Slave's chains, piled on the floor.

Running back outside, Laurence frantically scanned the area for signs of the other rebels. Harsh yelling from the south caught his attention. Running as fast his footpaws could carry him, he sprinted toward the sounds.

Turning from behind a wall he saw the gut wrenching sight: one of the renegade rebels, laughing sadistically at the kicking and flailing Ansley.

The stoat looked to the newcomer with pleading eyes.

Everything turned red. The scope of Laurence's view changed as he charged towards the insubordinate rebel. The rebel turned and her jaw dropped, upon seeing the vengeful otter run her through.

All the sounds of Ansley's croaking started to subdue. The otter ran over to the end of the rope and sawed through it as fast as he could. Ansley fell and hit the ground hard. His body splayed across the ground.

Laurence rushed to his friend. "No, don't die, Ansley…" He lifted the body up with careful claws. "No… you can't die… we're supposed to leave the Crucible together, remember?"

The tears started to run down his face, blurring his vision. "Ansley… Ansley!"

Fear and anguish permanently marked the discolored, beaten face of the stoat. Both eyes forever looking up at the white sky. Never going to see his parents again. Never going to see Helmsford, or Mossflower, or the rest of the world.

Forever gone.

Laurence could not keep his emotions in check any longer. The tears cascaded down his face while he hugged the body of his once living friend, gasping out one wracking sob after another.

Sunlight intensified and receded. The snowfall ceased, and Laurence no longer shivered.

Ansley's body eventually grew cold against the otter's heated grip.

~.~.~.~

Not until hours later, with the sound of movement coming behind him, did he move.

"Laurence."

He did not face the speaker. He couldn't bring himself to look them in the eyes.

"Come on... get up, mate."

Pairs of prying claws gently pulled him up and away from the stoat's body. Laurence begged for the newcomers to give him a moment to regain his composure, and after a beat, they did.

Laurence shed all the tears he could for the fallen creatures of Marshank. He recalled all of their faces and their stories. He would not forget them, or their stories. Not as long as he held breath in his lungs, he swore.

Once he felt certain that no more tears would come, Laurence began walking back around the corner, where Tope Benwrath and two other rebels awaited him.

"Is there anything to report?"

"Terkin and Imber heard a lot of racket comin' from the frozen fountain, south of here. They saw countless bluejackets hangin' around, as well as Kahmabutcha." Laurence's ears perked up at the name. "He was… he was waving your icicle sword in the air, yellin' your name."

 _Sondern._ The otter rebel named Imber piped up, "We think he's trying to draw us out of hiding, by using your sword as a way to-"

"Gear up, everyone. We're going to investigate it."

"But-but there's more of them than there are of us-"

"Since when do numbers mean anything to us?" Laurence shouldered his backpack and flexed his joints. "We've defeated entire patrols before."

"But you didn't see how many there were…"

"They have no idea how many we number. If we play it smart, we can still come out on top."

 _Nothing will stop me from getting Sondern. Nothing in this world, even if there were an infinite number of bluejackets or Hales, or Cains, or Vikkarses._

~.~.~.~

Dusk. For the last hour, nature's light slowly filtered away from the landscape, leaving only darkness abated by the handful of torches in the outfit.

The downpour of snow might have stopped hours earlier, but it didn't lift the guard's spirits by much.

Kahmabutcha, the baffling volunteer from faraway lands, danced and cursed to the winds in his foreign tongue. And since no platoon leaders volunteered for the suicide mission, the twenty-two subservient bluejackets merely clustered into disparate groups for warmth behind him.

"This ain't gonna end well, I can tell ya that much." Jinkpul the weasel asserted, while pulling his tattered, thin cloak closer around his form. "Any minute now, an army o' slaves are goin' to charge out from behind all these buildings an' slay us all."

Some of the others muttered their agreeance, and the weasel felt his confidence grow.

"Aye, an' here we are, ripe fer th' hangin'. We gotta be stupid t' leave th' Crucible willingly. An' what about that army on the outskirts, eh? They aren't with us, so they gotta be against us."

His mate Gurney happened to keeping his eyes peeled, and he spotted a cluster of figures growing closer. "Oy, checkit mates! Somebeast is comin' this way! It looks like Cap'n Wimmick- if anybeast'll know what to do, it'll be him!"

Everybeast turned to face the newest arrivals, only to vocalize their disappointment at the sight of just Captain Wimmick and only two more soldiers appearing from behind the snow bend.

The officer hailed the cluster of bluejackets once he grew close enough, "Alright, you lot! Cain sent me here to investigate your progress. What's the news? What have you got for me?"

Jinkpul branded himself as the unofficial spokesbeast of the group, and answered the officer. "Nothin'. Not a single thing to report."

Wimmick's eyes landed on Kahmabutcha, howling to the winds. "Ah-hah. An' what's that mongoose think he's doing? Summoning his fire gods again?"

"Tryin' to draw out those rebels, more like. We're all sitting here like sittin' ducks, too."

"What are we supposed to do, Cap'n? Jus' tell us an' we'll be ready!" said Gurney with an earnest enthusiasm.

The rat captain blinked. "Right. Well. You lot just- hold off for a few more moments. I'm- I'm going to go see if there is a building we can use, to ahh, to use as a lookout tower. Aye, that's it…"

All the bluejackets watched as he journeyed away from the large group, and the town's open center.

"He ain't comin' back," muttered Jinkpul bitterly. "No chance in hellgates. If Wimmick's got any ounce o' smarts inside that pigeon brain o' his, he's runnin' far away from Marshank. An' we should be too."

The others chimed in with their concerns of leaving as well, but no more than a couple minutes of discussion passed by before the group caught sight of another arrival from across the frozen fountain.

Laurence, Tope, and two more fugitives walked into view. The mongoose stopped his yelping short and fixed his gaze on the otter.

"Unbeliever! Finally, you show yeer face. I wait forra many hours, vut I knew you woot come."

"What do you want, Kamba? Tell us your demands for the sword. But be warned: any threats to our wellbeing-" he signalled with his right paw, and an arrow zipped past him and nearly hit Kamba, "-and you'll be the first to die."

"Fight me for te sword, unbeliever. Fight again with honor, and no turty tricks. Ees all I askah. You win, you ket your sword back, ayah!"

"And if I lose?"

Kamba sent a fiery glance toward the otter's way. _"_ Ten you weel die."

The otter did not return the look, and instead stared at Sondern, locked firmly in the mongoose's claws. "I accept your offer."

"You said we weren't going to accept his demands." muttered Tope urgently.

"Trust me on this. If worse comes to worst, just get Terkin to shoot him down with an arrow." Laurence nodded towards the lookout tower to the left of them, overlooking the town center.

The sun came out from behind the clouds as the pair began preparing for their final battle.

Laurence would not don armor this time; only his dark avant jacket and simple tunic would suffice. Speed would be his ally this time, since Kamba appeared to be fighting him with the cumbersome Sondern.

Kamba still wore nothing, except for a loin cloth and leather straps encircling his scarred form to holster all of his knives. He held a vicious leer, one that seemed to imply the mongoose knew more than he seemed to be letting on.

While Gyffa and Tope continued suiting him up, Laurence thought back to all his other fights. The increasing arrogance he felt after winning each match, sliding back and only going through the motions of each war prayer. He'd lost sight of what was important in his life- he would need to refocus on the important things, if he ever expected to make the journey after death to Paradisum at all.

"Tope." The stoat turned to face the otter. "I'm... sorry. For everything I said."

His friend gave him a clap on the shoulder and handed him his spear. "Bygones and bygones. Just focus on gettin' through this alive, Laurence."

When the two fighters felt ready to fight they met beside the frozen fountain, less than a yard's distance between them.

"We meet again, unbeliever. And for te last time. In firelands, we leev prey alive after beating tem furst time, and give tem one last chance to run away. One more chance. Dis time I keel you- wit your own sordt."

"You will regret leaving me alive. Mark my words."

Kamba raised the sword and jumped back. Laurence brought the spear down to chest level and held his ground.

"By the blood of my father and mother…By the blood of my brothers-" He stepped over to the right to block an incoming swing from Kamba. "Blessed be the followers. Fates, give me strength, and grant me wisdom."

Laurence felt a renewed vigor coursing through him. He jabbed forward with the spear and scored a blow on the enemy's shoulder. Kamba cursed in his native tongue before bringing down the sword for a crashing blow.

The otter barely had enough time to dodge left, Sondern shattering the ice on the ground where he stood only moments earlier. Again Laurence brought his spear forward to strike Kamba, this time only grazing his claws.

With nowhere else to go, Laurence backpedaled into the frozen fountain's slippery surface. The mongoose swung the icicle sword sideways and connected with the Frostfang's elbow. He screamed at the stinging pain and fell to the ice from the powerful hit.

Kamba dropped the weapon and reached for one of his daggers, giving Laurence time to use the spear with his good arm- sweeping the mongoose off his footpaws.

Laurence tried propping himself up with his spear and succeeded after a few attempts. Kamba the Devoted scrabbled back to his claws, abandoning Sondern on the ground. _Too heavy for him. He's not used to the weight and it's throwing him off-balance._

Resisting the temptation to reclaim his sword immediately, Laurence directed his attention to the approaching enemy. He kept the mongoose at bay by swiping the spear in an arc.

Kamba threw down a powder against the icy ground and a bright flash erupted, stinging Laurence's eyes and fogging up the arena. The sounds of retreating footfalls told him that the mongoose was using the opportunity to create distance.

The increasing cavalcade of background noise attracted Laurence's attention: everybeast around them, fighting to the death- bluejackets and rebels alike, fighting- not one another, but another faction- cries of desperation as those with no chance cut down- _Vikkars' army. They're moving in to take over the settlement!_

"Ayah, what is te meaning of tis!"roared Kamba. He dropkicked Laurence to the icy ground, causing him to careen toward the fountain's lip. The otter's head smashed against the stone and he saw stars. The mongoose stood tall over the otter, with a dagger raised above his head. "We sed no tricks, and dis ees another trick!"

An arrow sunk into the chest of Kamba. He gripped the protuberance and faced his would-be victim with wide eyes, fumbling for breath as he fell to his knees.

Laurence picked up his blade Sondern and turned to face the crumpling mongoose when one of the newcomer soldiers hopped into the fountain and charged at him. With all the speed he could muster he ducked under a swing and cut the throat of his enemy using the tip of Sondern.

Showered in blood of the fallen enemy, he approached Kamba, who feebly tried to crawl away from the battlefield. Laurence flipped him over with his footpaw. The mongoose raised both paws up in self-defense.

"Please, unbeliever, show mercy! Ayah, I could have killed you but the fiyah gotts told me to spare you. Mercy!"

Laurence ran Kamba through with such force it pierced through the melting surface below the mongoose. He watched with grim determination as the light left his enemy's eyes as he sunk into the depths of the fountain. Not idling a moment longer the otter scampered out from the crumbling ice and eyed the area for his followers.

The cry of a familiar voice brought Laurence's attention to the left, where he saw Tope fighting three soldiers at once.

Running to his friend's defense, he quickly dispatched one of them before another turned their attention onto Laurence. He used the weight of his heavy blade to back them into a wall and run them through, like with the mongoose.

Tope took care of the third with ease.

"We need to get out of here!" yelled Tope over the heat of battle.

Laurence nodded. "Then follow me. I know a place."

The two moved as fast as they could away from the conflict, leaving the two factions to fight amongst themselves.


	40. The Hemlock

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Hemlock**

 _A Collaboration, Feat. Bechtel and Ander_

* * *

The halls smelled wrong.

Whip noticed it the moment he stepped foot into the Crucible. He recognized the flaked mortar and ancient dust, but gone was the musk of patrolling beasts. He caught a faint whiff that indicated beasts had passed through here, but with none of the regularity as should be found among the guard.

He adjusted his grip on his dagger. Hale's schemes, an army on the horizon, guards strung up on the streets—the Crucible and all it stood for was dying before his very eyes, strangled by ignorance. He wasn't sure how all the pieces fit together, but the Crucible – and Lord Cain – needed him now more than ever.

A scrabbling drew his attention, and he saw Gromo pulling the unconscious bat through the hole in the wall. He considered ordering Gromo to leave the bat to die – the beast already had one foot in the grave – but the stone firm beneath him pushed against the thought. The bat had followed through not only on his demands for knowledge of Hale, but also in securing passage into the Crucible. Whip would not allow that debt to remain in his ledger.

"Gromo, get him to a healer."

Gromo looked up from the bat, expression confused. "Eh? I'm comin' wit' ye, Cap'n."

Whip frowned. "No, you're not. This is something I will handle on my own."

The other rat hesitated, helping the bat first through the narrow opening into the Crucible. Then he approached Whip, stood up straight, and put on a stern face. "Cap'n, this ain't home anymore. We dunno what beasts we can trust, an' if yer goin' after Hale, ye'll need me by yer side. …if ye don't mind me sayin'."

Such a flagrant show of loyalty might have been laudable were it not for the twiddling fingers and chewed lip.

"I need you to do what I say," Whip said. "Take the northern route around the Hall of Greats—there aren't likely many beasts there. Find that hare healer, Truson, and explain the situation. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, and until Hale lies cold and dead, the bat's life is as good as forfeit. Do your part to keep him alive."

Gromo glanced between the bat and Whip, expression twitching in uncertainty. Whip stepped to the side and unclasped the scourge from his belt.

"That was an order, Gromo."

Gromo saluted sharply, then quickly disappeared down a hall.

Flexing his grip on the handle of his scourge, Whip stepped deeper into the halls of the Crucible. The army and his feckless guards could wait. First, he would pry the truth from Hale, even if it issued only from the cat's screams.

~.~.~.~

No guards patrolled the halls. He found jacketed beasts deeper within the Crucible, but he could not bring himself to refer to these limp-shouldered, distant-eyed creatures as guards of Marshank.

Whip maneuvered his way around them, though that required little mastery of subterfuge. An all-consuming fog seemed to linger over these beasts' minds, distracting them from their proper duties. The insult of it all sends waves of rage prickling of Whip's fur. Not even a week, and the guard had been reduced to ruin.

He did not approach Hale's room by the hallways. No matter how simple Hale had turned the guard, Whip was certain there would be a private little army guarding his doorway. Especially now, this close to succeeding in his treachery.

And so Whip appealed to the cat's arrogance. Every guard in Marshank knew of the open wall in Hale's office, bare to the sky and elements. The cat called it inspiration. Whip called it an invitation for invasion. He'd appealed numerous times to have the opening shored up, listing the many ways an intruder could scale the walls and slip into the room. Hale would have none of it, in spite of the danger he placed himself and his brother in for his wanderlust.

For once, Whip felt grateful for the cat's stubbornness.

Reaching the furthest heights of the Marshank, Whip navigated his way to the old storerooms located in the very ceiling of the fortress. Securing a length of rope from the discarded pile of building materials, he climbed into the attic of the Crucible. Scrabbling flat on his stomach, he crawled until he felt a wooden panel above and unlatched it.

Stars greeted him above, the cries of the crowd at the Crucible's gates nothing more than a murmur on the wind. Whip scurried onto the flat roof of the Crucible and hurried to a nearby edge. The stark blue of the Crucible's colors waved from a flagpole nearly a story beneath him. Beside it lay the open wall of Hale's office.

Dropping the coil of rope from his shoulder, he fixed one end to a narrow-ridged parapet, then carefully climbed over to make his descent down the wall. As he neared the opening, he heard a pair of voices whispering sharply within.

"…don't care about your excuses, fitch. You promised me results." The ragged, domineering voice of a beast too comfortable in their power. Whip recognized Hale immediately.

"My paws are tied thoroughly behind my back, milord. I did not anticipate having to work around the ferret's demands, and I cannot both keep an eye on him and continue your search." A deeper voice, cadenced with familiarity in soothing the tempers of higher beasts. Whip knew the voice, but failed to place a name or face to match.

"And have you considered that this might be part of his plan? That he is the reason those vials are missing in the first place?"

Whip's ears straightened at this. Careful not to make a sound, he descended lower and twisted his ear towards the hole.

"I have seen no indication that he has them, and whatever influence he's acquired, I doubt it could result in such a scheme."

"Would you prefer I turn my suspicions on you? Few beasts have had access to my office."

"You would know if I was to blame. You have a particular gift for observation, milord."

"Don't patronize me. I still suspect the painter, despite your insistence of her innocence." A ragged sound followed—a growl marred with exasperation. "Find me that poison. I cannot afford to have it wandering the halls while that coward plots in the shadows."

A sudden rush flooded Whip's veins—rage, vindication, and anticipation all at once. He'd heard enough. Pressing his feet flat against the wall, he bent and tensed.

"Be sure that Cain's meals are thoroughly checked, while—"

Paws tight around his rope, Whip hopped off the wall and swung up in a small arc. The office revealed itself before him, with Hale seated at his desk facing away from Whip, while Solomon the fitch stood near the door, paws clasped smartly behind him. Gravity pulled at him, the rope swinging inwards towards open office. Whip caught sight of Solomon stunned expression before he released his grip.

Hale turned just as Whip struck him, sending the pair to the carpeted floor. Whip recovered first, silencing Hale's cry in the lush fibers while his knee dug against spine. He pressed his dagger to Hale's neck and shot a look to Solomon, whose paw lay half-turned on the handle to the door.

Everything stopped. Whip glared at the fitch, the fitch glared back, while Hale's gasps for air issued underneath.

"Everything all right, Administrator?"

All eyes flicked to the door. Solomon hadn't moved, paw still on the handle. Whip shook his head, and to make sure the fitch understood, he began to pull the knife along the cat's neck. Trickles of blood dripped to the carpet.

Solomon released the handle and stood up straighter. "Another fit." His voice darkened, "He told you to stand clear of this door. Leave us to talk."

"…of course."

Footsteps echoed beyond the door. A smirk, born of finality and power, spread across Whip's face.

"You lie well, fitch." He gestured. "Now lock it."

Solomon did so, then stepped away from the door—slowly, and without approaching Whip. "When a life is at stake, I'm capable of many things." His expression hardened. "I would request you let the Administrator go, however. This is not a course of action that ends well for you."

"He stays until he admits his crimes."

Solomon's lip twitched with contempt. "I hoped you would have more grace in your dismissal. Wild conspiracies don't suit y—"

"No." Hale choked out from beneath, lifting up his free paw. "I'll play your game, Whip, though I think you'll be disappointed with my answers."

Whip's brow creased, deepening every scar upon them. Slowly, he raised himself from the cat, though his knife remained a twitch away from ending the beast's life. "On your feet."

Hale pointed at a fallen stick across from him. "I'll need my can—"

"You'll make do." Whip kicked his knee against him. "Up."

"So uncivilized," Hale sighed.

As Hale pushed himself slowly onto his feet, Whip waited for the inevitable attack. To his surprise, none came. Hale staggered, so Whip held him firm by twisting one arm behind his back, keeping the blade ever at his throat.

"Ask your questions, then," Hale said, tone lofty and disinterested.

"You'd be wise to take this seriously."

"I have actual concerns that demand my worry and attention. This circus show of yours is not one of them. Let's hurry this along."

Whip's whiskers and ears flicked. He swallowed his anger at the cat's attitude and began, "I know your scheme. You tried to get rid of all the witnesses, but you missed one. And he had some interesting things to say about Molly, and her benefactor, and that poison you just so happened to—"

"I admit it."

Whip stilled. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he'd heard the words, or simply imagined them. "You what?"

Hale shrugged. "I admit it. I was the one who brought those beasts together. I fed them information and opportunities so that they could escape. I gave them a weakened poison with orders for them to kill me. I arranged it so that the Frostfang's fight required the full attention of the guard so that they would escape unimpeded, and I made sure you lost your position because of it. Congratulations, Whip, you've finally caught me red-pawed."

Whip and Solomon both gaped at Hale.

"Milord, why would you—"

"Traitor!" Whip snarled, the dagger shaking in his grip. "Lord Cain showed you mercy, and this is how you repay him? You're a disease, Hale. I would kill you myself, but I will leave that honor to your brother once he hears of your treachery."

Hale made no reaction to the rat's words. He drew in a slow breath, then said, "A question, Captain Whip. Have you noticed how the Crucible is… different?"

Whip steadied himself. This was the Hale he knew—the beast who wielded crafty words and wandering distractions as his weapons. Confident in his established victory – as evidenced by the distressed expression still on the fitch's face – he entertained the cat. "I see the results of your manipulations, nothing more."

"Then you didn't look hard enough, or didn't you notice the army on the horizon?"

"Your friends from the North? I saw. How long have you had them in your pocket? Did you really think Lord Cain would submit to such simple tactics?"

A quiet fell upon the room. Whip's smile faltered.

"My my, you really don't know what's going on…"

"The army belongs to Drugaen Vikkars, a slave here in the Crucible," Solomon said.

Whip's eyes widened. The fallen King of Iron was one of the few beasts he'd recruited as a spy among the slaves. They had a simple arrangement—Vikkars kept an ear out for trouble brewing among the slaves, and in turn, Whip granted him small favors. Suddenly, those inconsequential letters passed to "slighted lovers" visiting Marshank felt very dubious. A chill trickled down his spine.

"I… know that one," Whip admitted, and said no more on the subject.

"I'm sure you can imagine the situation we find ourselves in," Hale said. "An sudden enemy on the horizon, and their ruler among us. If we lay a paw on Vikkars, he'll order his army to attack, but in the meanwhile, we're slaves to his every quibble and demand." The cat's shoulders slumped, and he sighed. "This, if you must know, is why I did what I did."

Whip's scoffed. "This justifies nothing."

"It justifies everything!" Hale bit back. "Do you know what I saw in the North, during my exile? Untamed lands ruled by mad beasts. Blood was a currency there, and that is no exaggeration. These beasts only knew war, but they knew it well. Vikkars? He's one of many. There are hundreds more of him, and I knew, one day, they would find their way to Marshank."

"And this excuses your treason?"

"I don't expect you to believe me, Captain, but I love my brother. It took me the wildlands of the North to recognize what I had lost, and what I had to fight to preserve. So I returned, and I took steps to prepare Marshank for war. I started by convincing Cain to renovate the Crucible. Promises of increased seating and luxuries for the aristocrats purchased his agreement, but have you noticed how much work has gone to strengthening and expanding the walls? Beasts too often forget that the Crucible was once the military fortress of Badrang. I am seeing it return to that glory."

Whip scowled at the implications and hidden slights against Lord Cain's dignity, though nuggets of truth passed through all the same. He did notice how much of the construction strengthened the foundations and defenses of the Crucible.

"But it would not be enough," Hale continued. "Marshank needed an army, and it had one in its very paws—beasts trained and readied for war, yet my brother wastes them on sport, on gawking audiences."

"Lord Cain understands the purity of the Cru—"

"Save your defenses, Whip. I know how highly you value the Crucible, and yet even you can see what a mockery these games have become. Look at yourself—due to Cain's insatiable lust for more combatants, even you were compelled to fill the cells with beasts plucked from the streets."

"I did what I had to," Whip said. "I believed in it."

"Yet Lord Cain disagrees with your good intentions. As I knew he would with mine." His voice shifted, turning dark and cold, "I could not afford to be cast out onto the streets. I had to force my brother to see. I needed to show him that with just the help of one beast, slaves could revolt and escape. I needed to show him that even his most loyal and stalwart defender would not be enough. I needed to show him that the structure he had built was broken." He paused. "I… needed him to trust me through it all, so that finally, I could force him down from his throne. With his guard scattered, he would have no choice but to accept, and I would show him the world as it was, and together we would reforge the Crucible into a fortress for Marshank's defense."

"And we finally get to the truth of it." Whip snorted. "This is just another conquest for power."

"Look outside!" Hale snapped. "That army is confirmation of everything I feared, and it is only the beginning! Everything I have done, I have done for Cain, but now it may be too late." Against the cut of Whip's blade, he craned his neck to look at the rat. "I failed. I can't clean the blood from my paws fast enough, and it no longer matters. Marshank needs its defenders, but Cain and I alone cannot defend it. We need each and every beast united against this threat."

Whip considered. Each and every word the cat spoke was laced with layers, thick enough that the rat could not cut through them all. His hatred of Hale was confirmed with every sentence, but so too did he stop to consider the truth he heard. If this was all simply a trick on Hale's part, then he did a poor job of playing the victim. However, he couldn't put it past Hale to know that, and use it against him.

His ears flicked. Past his swirling thoughts, he heard something. Distant, indistinct, like a dream flickering by one's memory. He felt it then. A heaviness in the air. A tremor intangible, but felt all the same.

Whip, Solomon, and Hale both looked out the open wall to the sprawling city of Marshank beneath them. In the dark, he saw a shadow spreading. The shadow swirled through the furthest streets, but moved ever inwards. Flashes flickered within the inky black, like lightning skittering within a heavy stormcloud.

His ears flicked again, and this time, the sounds neared. The pulse and rumble of a quake, but not born from the earth. Scattered voices in the distance.

Screams.

For one of the very few times in his life, Whip felt fear. In his paws, he felt Hale tremble as well.

"They're attacking," Solomon breathed. The reality of his words did not seem to strike him immediately, until his eyes widened and he spoke with a louder voice, "They're attacking!"

"Go inform the garrison!" Hale barked.

Solomon darted for the door.

"Stop!" Whip snapped, resetting his grip over Hale.

Solomon paused, eyes flicking between the two beasts in indecision.

"Vulpuz's sake, Whip, set aside your hatred for a moment!" Hale shouted. "Once this is all over, I'll stand before Cain and admit my sins to his face. I welcome you to be there as well, but for now, he needs the both of us."

Whip looked back out to the approaching mass of beasts. He winced with every scream the still air carried to his ears. He looked back at the cat, at the blood trailing from the open wound on his neck.

He trusted little of what Hale spun with his story, but the truth before him could not be denied. Lord Cain – Marshank itself – needed his Captain of the Guard once more.

Whip released Hale, and the wildcat stumbled forward. Hale rubbed at his neck, then nodded at Solomon to leave.

"We need to see to the safety of as many beasts as possible," Hale said. "Come with me to the gates, and I'll vouch for your authority. Cain won't like me overriding his commands, but he'll have to abide it."

Whip cleaned his dagger on the side of his breeches. "You didn't toss the guards' weapons to the sea, did you?"

Hale shook his head. "No, and we have plenty of extra weapons in the Crucible's armory."

"If you can get those dainty-pawed fops to pick up a sword in the first place." Whip scratched at his chin. "Perhaps the slaves will take up arms, so long as we make it clear their life is on the…" he trailed off, eyes widening.

"What is it?"

"Drugaen. Where is he?"

~.~.~.~

Early afternoon.

Ander stood with his shoulder pressed against a large pillar, staring out at the slaves and guards as they went about their daily, deplorable lives, and scowling an unbelievable scowl.

This time, nobeast talked to him.

Some creatures walked past and ran away in fright upon seeing for themselves his freshly scarred face and bent frown, but there was nobeast at his side, nobeast for him to complain to that his head hurt or jest with or ramble on about things that never happened.

No. Not anymore- his friendship with Bechtel was dust, and Bechtel, like Cain, was the enemy.

They all were.

"There you are, Ander."

The weasel snapped his neck around, blowing a gust of alcohol-smelling breath through his pointed teeth. It was Vikkars.

The vermin he was supposed to bow and scrape to.

He watched in numb disgust as the sinewy ferret swaggered up to him, holding what looked like a crumpled and browned piece of parchment in one paw, and a bitten apple in the other.

He slapped the leaflet against the pillar, right above Ander's head.

"Do you know what _this_ is?"

Ander's lip twitched.

"No, Drugaen. Perhaps some poetry you dropped in the dirt?"

Vikkars glowered dangerously at his face, and the weasel shamefully averted his gaze.

"I know it isn't."

"You do?" breathed Vikkars. He ushered in a painful silence, and as he relished in it he continued staring, long enough to get both an uncomfortable whimper and a flinch out of Ander. "It would be wise for you to watch yourself," the ferret drawled, "unless you would like to witness what I can _truly_ do to that worthless face of yours."

His eyes a bit damp, Ander's head bobbed.

"This, weasel," continued Drugaen, "is the note I have just received from my horde. They should be here today."

Ander opened his mouth and then shut it again.

 _His army is coming here? Why?_ He shifted his eyes.

The ferret jabbed Ander in the shoulder. "Listen. I need you to go to the armory and steal me a sword, because I have a feeling that Cain will not take so kindly to me trying to walk free, even with my army banging at the gates. I would go myself," he straightened up and rolled his shoulders, pointing at his crown. "But my reputation is still in place."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ Ander thought dryly, curling his lip and nodding.

"Any questions?" Vikkars asked.

"Nope." said Ander curtly, remaining slouched. "I already know where it is."

He quickly hurried to the armory, glad to be away from Vikkars for the time being. His blood was boiling, and the vials of secret poison jangled and clanked in his pockets.

He couldn't submit to that ferret forever.

No- not only couldn't, he _wouldn't,_ and perhaps with whatever weapon he got his paws on, he would force Vikkars to treat him properly.

The coldest of thoughts danced around Ander's brain as he approached the door, and almost imminently the two guards outside it tensed up and pointed spears at him.

He stood there, bristling, full of shame and anger and tender bitterness.

"Wait, Awin," said one of the guards suddenly- a tall, muscular otter who looked strangely familiar. He threw out a paw in front of the squirrel beside him and then assessed the weasel at hand.

"Your name is Ander, isn't it? Ander the Awe-Inspiring? You played the violin..."

Ander raised his tired brown eyes.

"That's him all right," concluded the otter mostly to himself. "I heard he was working under Vik now."

Ander's gaze flicked over to the short squirrel, who nearly dropped his spear when he moved his paws to cover his mouth.

"I see it now, Bartho!" gaped Awin. He looked up at Ander in shock. "Vikkars is your master? Those are some scars..."

Ander, his ears flat against his skull, bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Everything, every single bad thing was piling up and up and up, and he could feel his conscience snapping. He wanted so desperately to keep himself together, to think of the good times and move on, but each time he reached for the dashing, cunning part of himself, the further out to sea it seemed to drift.

He was weak, and for the billionth time he found himself teetering on the edge of sizzling, burning tears.

"Drugaen sent me," he squeaked.

 _Was that how others saw Vikkars?_

As his master?

The two woodlanders relaxed their spears.

"I'm sorry, Ander..." said Awin sympathetically. "But you're not allowed in there. If Vikkars wants something, he will have to get it himself."

Ander could tell the squirrel was analyzing him.

"Listen to me," the weasel cried, stepping closer to them. "I won't go back empty-pawed. I _need_ this."

Awin and the gruff-looking otter, Bartholomew, exchanged glances.

Ander inhaled sharply. "I meant that _Vikkars..._ needs this. _He_ does."

The two guards turned their backs on him and whispered together in hushed tones, and when he next saw their faces, he noticed Awin pulling something from his pocket.

It glinted in the sunlight.

"We are _not_ allowed to let you in there," the otter repeated, folding his arms and glancing at Awin.

The short red squirrel met Bartholomew's gaze knowingly as he approached Ander.

"Here," the squirrel said, holding out a dagger to the weasel. "I don't think this is against the rules any."

Something like ice stabbed up through Ander's paws and ran through his arms to his very heart, and he reached out his claws expectantly.

"He will be so very happy with me," he said quietly, taking it and holding it to his chest. "Thank you."

But both Awin and Bartholomew had turned, as if they had never seen him.

Minutes later, the next place that Ander spotted Drugaen Vikkars was at the walltop, alone. It was snowing.

The ferret stood as rigid as a soldier on watch. His eye was poised for signs of his army's approach, no doubt.

Cautiously, Ander tiptoed along, Awin's dagger, now thoroughly smothered in poison, concealed away inside his sleeve.

"Sir," he panted, racing up the stairs.

Vikkars did not turn around. "Weasel. I assume you got the sword?"

"I could only get a dagger." said Ander dryly, pulling it from his sleeve.

Vikkars motioned to him.

"Bring it where I can see it, fool."

Ander silently approached, clutching the hilt of the weapon so tightly that his skin started turning white under his fur. He held it up for Drugaen to take a look at it, but didn't lighten his clutch.

A low rumble came from the ferret's throat.

"This is it?" he asked, whirling on him. Ander backed up.

"Y-Yes." The weasel with the scarred face didn't move.

Vikkars' eyes narrowed. "Well, go on, don't stand there like a paralyzed frog. Give it to me."

He held out one paw, and when Ander didn't hand the dagger over, Drugaen Vikkars lashed out and slapped him viciously across the cheek.

Across his _scar._

The weasel yowled and stumbled back, still holding the weapon but letting loose two tears.

He saw red.

"I'll give it to you!" Ander screamed when he looked up, his voice hoarse and strained.

Vikkars barely had time to do a double-take before the weasel ran forth and bowled him over, trying to stab anything and everything he possibly could. Feeling the metal nick his nose, the ferret king grabbed hold of Ander's right wrist, pushing towards his enemy so that the blade could not impale him.

"No!" said Ander. "I'll kill you!"

He leaned down and sunk his teeth into the ferret's arm, and Drugaen was forced to let go.

Ander raised his dagger and aimed for the ferret's neck.

With a violent thrust, Vikkars cast Ander from him, knocking the weasel onto his back. The ferret with the metal crown stood and growled menacingly, his claws lashing out at both sides.

"You will beg for mercy, insubordinate little..."

Ander stood, his teeth bared in fury and terror all at once. He missed the rest of Vikkars' words.

Dagger in paw, the weasel yowled and launched himself at Vikkars, who in turn leaped at him, and the two of them tumbled along the battlements in a screeching, snarling mass of fur, blood, and metal.

Ander hacked off the tip of Vikkars' ear and sliced into his arm, but Vikkars merely growled louder and pushed back by scoring his claws down the weasel's chest and drawing blood.

They rolled over again, and this time Vikkars landed on top, snarling and battering Ander with blow after blow after...

Blood squirted from the ferret's side, near his arm, and Ander pulled his dagger free and proceeded to slice it down across the ferret's face and eye.

Vikkars screamed.

Seizing his chance, Ander wriggled out from under him and whacked him down when he tried to get up.

Ander could hear murmuring, shouting- none of it mattered.

He glared with fiery hatred at Vikkars and pressed the blade of his dagger against the ferret's throat.

Drugaen's breath was coming in low heaves.

Turning his eyes up to look at Ander, Vikkars shuddered, and for the first time, the weasel saw the terror he could produce.

He loved it.

"Wh..What did you..." Vikkars began to inquire, but blood clotted his vision and poison flushed through his body.

Even more murmurs rose up from the surrounding crowd, from the creatures of the Crucible that gathered to watch.

Ander brought a claw to the ferret's lips.

"You look thirsty," he cooed, and set the dagger aside to slip a vial out from his once-blue pocket and pop the cork off.

The fear that flashed through Drugaen's eyes caused him to chuckle uncontrollably.

"I am the victor," Ander whispered.

Vikkars opened his mouth in rebuttal, but words hadn't time to form before the weasel forced the open flask in his mouth and watched the toxic green liquid drain completely.

Drugaen Vikkars gasped and convulsed, then stopped moving altogether. His eyes glossed over.

"I am Ander the Awe-Inspiring." Ander said, pushing both dagger and vial aside and resting his paws on the dead ferret's metal crown, the one which had been nailed to him.

All the beasts that were watching turned away when they saw Ander viciously tug the crown out from the ferret's skull and place it atop his own head.

"I am the king, I have the crown!" He yelled at the blackness above, shaking his fists.

Two bluejackets that had been scaling the stairs with hopes of restraining him stopped in their tracks.

Ander held up his dagger and pointed it at the pair of guards. "What are you doing, gawping at me?! Get going! Get gone!"

Both of them turned sheet white and ran down the hall.

Turning back towards the edge of the battlements, he stared fervently at the tiny, dancing lights far off in the distance. Judgment was approaching.

 **[End of Round Six]**


	41. Crowns and Kings

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Crowns and Kings  
**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

Ander stepped through the doorway before the creaking ended. The fitch behind him seized his wrist before he neared the massive table and the rising beast behind it.

 _Lord Cain,_ thought the weasel with a venomous smirk.

The slave master's golden features no longer had their vibrant sheen, his fur disheveled as if run through by a paw a hundred times too many. Lines dug underneath his eyes and cheekbones, accentuating the tired droop of his shoulders.

He seemed like a worn beast, save for his eyes. Those silver, piercing eyes still searched wide and far, blessed with the predatory awareness of a wild creature. Ander met the beast's gaze and waited for the inevitable question.

"Solomon?" Cain's voice rumbled, cracked with tiredness but no less dangerous. "What is this?"

"I-I'm sorry for the intrusion, Lord Cain," the fitch muttered, adding a bow for good measure, "But I found this slave who claims to have sway over Drugaen's army, and demanded to-"

Cain silenced the guard with a raised paw, then turned his attention back to Ander. "I see you wear the ferret's crown. Your handiwork?"

"There are many who could testify to that, Solomon included. You think Vikkars would just hand it over?" Ander answered, or, moreover, asked- countering Cain's inquiry with a snide little jeer of a question, and then proceeding to dust his claws off on his coat.

Cain snorted. "I personally saw to it that crown was sewn into his head, and no king of the North would ever hand over his crown willingly." He plucked up a quill, dipped it into a vial of ink, and scribbled at a sheet of paper in front of him. "You have my thanks for discarding this particularly troublesome individual. Solomon? See him back to his cell."

The fitch glanced between Ander and Cain, brow furrowing. "B-but, Milord, he says he can call them-"

Cain slapped the quill down and eyed Ander. "Some opportunistic halfwit kills Vikkars, trots in here with that ridiculous bauble on his head, and says he has a connection to the army? Do you seriously think I would believe that story? I know your type, and your lies won't buy you much in this room." With a wave of his paw, he fell back into his chair. "To his cell, if you would please. I need to see to the defense of my Crucible."

In the blink of an eye, Ander ripped his arm from the fitch's claws and rushed forward, though he stopped a few feet in front of Cain. Solomon lurched to grab him, but the weasel threw his paws in the air like a beast gone mad.

"Would a halfwit know of General Goran?!" He demanded, wheeling back around to face Cain, blood still dripping from his fresh injuries. "Would a halfwit be so knowledgeable as to know the exact location of the army, and that they have been stopping the shipments you want sent to this rotting gutter of a place? Tell me!"

The weasel's brown eyes flashed in rage before they gradually simmered down to a few controlled flames as he stared Cain in the face, his own jagged scar hideously jutting down beside his grimace.

The moment passed, and suddenly he felt something grab his collar and yank him backwards. He kicked out for balance, snarling and scraping at the guard pulling him back towards the door.

"Wait."

The pulling stopped, and Ander grew still. Cain stared at him, the aloof dismissal gone from his expression. Now, overtop steepled fingers, the wildcat observed him with slit, cautious, searching eyes.

"You have a minute. Make your bargain."

The grip around his collar loosened, though the lord's assistant stood near enough to intercept any further attempts on Ander's part.

"Oh, no," said Ander sullenly, somehow appearing almost calm after his spat with the guard. "Not like this. I would need a chair, and more than a minute. There is quite a lot that would benefit you to know, Cain… _but_."

The weasel glanced back at the door, and the fitch in his way.

"I don't want to put ideas into that one's head."

Cain's fingers tightened around each other, so that his curved claws glinted against the shimmering torchlight.

"A minute, and if I like what I hear, you'll get another and your chair."

A grating, gnawing noise came from Ander's teeth. But eventually he took his seat along the stone table.

"My bargain is simple and presents plusses for us both," he said, levelly. "You allow me to go, and you remove my collar, and I will call my beasts off."

" _Your_ beasts?" Cain asked, a brow raising.

"Don't interrupt my minute," Ander growled. "I'll order _my_ beasts to leave Marshank, and completely untouched." He paused. "...But only upon you carrying out your end of the bargain, of course, will I walk straight up to my army and carry out _mine._ "

"And what guarantee do I have they'll listen to you?"

Ander pointed to his bloodstained crown. "They report only to me, Cain. You will hear no more until I am properly seated."

Cain hissed a breath between his teeth, averting his gaze and tapping his claws against his desk. After a moment, he snapped his fingers. "Get him a chair."

Solomon quickly procured an empty chair beside Cain's desk and dragged it over to Ander.

"Sit." Cain gestured. "That's another minute. Keep talking."

Ander soon found himself lounging, and he seemed to not waste much thought on Cain's time limit. And why should he? That wildcat needed to hear what he had to say, and if he did not, well… he would be made to feel stupid, and certainly be in for an unpleasant surprise.

"Cain," said Ander once again to the larger creature's face, "They are sworn to attack without warning if I do not call them off before the sun rises tomorrow. You cannot spare to lose me. I demand the eavesdropper to step outside."

"You make no demands in my halls, slave." Cain reclined back in his chair, a small smile breaking the dour look on his face. "In fact, if all it takes to gain the loyalty of Vikkars' entire army is that crown, what's to stop me from simply taking it from your cold corpse?"

Ander reached inside his pocket. "I have no problem with that prospect," he murmured, scrounging around until he produced a shiny little flask in his paw. A strong-smelling, thick green liquid sloshed around inside it. It was another vial of his infamous poison. The weasel removed the cork.

The smile fell from the wildcat's face. "What is that?" He sniffed, and for the first time since entering the room, fear crossed Cain's face. "Hemlock." He stood up from his chair. "How did you get that?"

"I'll ask Hale," said Ander. "You just said I'm expendable." Looking down, he traced his finger around the glass brim. "It's a shame, although I do understand. You would rather not engage with a slave, and nor would _I_ if I were you. After all, maybe it is just this crown. This...battered, bloodstained, ugly piece of metal."

He smiled bitterly, and raised the vial in a toast. "But then again, maybe not. I'll leave that to you."

Cain swiped uselessly across the desk, a full arm's length away from the weasel. "Stop him!" he roared.

A paw smacked the vial away just before it touched Ander's lips. He squinted at the broken glass and seeping liquid for a moment, then up again at the slave master, and smiled crookedly.

"Why, Cain, does this mean you _do_ need me?"

Cain's fur rippled with barely-restrained anger. A horrific screeching peeled up from the desk as he dug his claws across its surface. "No common slave could muster this much influence. Who are you, really?"

Ander snorted. "I'm Ander, the Awe-Inspiring. King of All."

Behind them the doors flew open. Hale Seftis and the rat called Whip entered the room out of breath.

"Lord Cain... Vikkars, he's dead... somebeast killed him!"

Cain stood to his footpaws at the sight of Whip. "What do you think you're doing back here, Whip? I banished you! Told you to never return!"

"But my lord- there are things you need to know." The rat placed his weight on his knees and panted. "Somebeast killed the ferret..."

Hale's eyes went wide at the crown on Ander's head. "That one- he's the one who slew him..."

"Get out, both of you. The three of us will talk in a moment. I'm in the middle of something."

Ander watched with pleasure at the two former Crucible figureheads being led out the door by a pair of guards like lesser servants. _Oh, how the tables have turned._ He turned back to Cain.

"Now then, where were we?"

Cain yanked his claws free from his desk. Then, in low tones, he spoke, "Your collar and your freedom, and then you call off your horde. I have little patience left to lose, weasel. One false move and I can make your final moments very painful and very long."

Ander entertained a smile and a moment's pause to let it sink into the wildcat's psyche. "I knew a beast of culture such as yourself would see reason." He slipped the vial back into the folds of his coat.

"Once you follow through on your end of the bargain," he tapped his collar for emphasis, "I'll do my part. I suggest you hurry, though. An army at the gates isn't a good look for you."

"Get out," Cain snarled.

Ander stood up from his chair, brushed the front of his coat clean, then turned to face the fitch. "To the locksmith, then?"

~.~.~.~

Snow was coming down heavily now, and a cruel, whistling wind rustled the landscape.

Ander ran his paws up and down his chafed neck, free from the collar and any sort of chains. Solomon stood behind him as they approached the exit.

Ander was smirking evilly.

"You can go," said Solomon, giving the command for the gates to be opened.

The weasel walked past him and gave a wide smile. "Indeed I can, and I will waste not a minute longer."

Solomon jumped back in startled surprise from sharp prick against his forearm. "What did you just-"

Ander darted away from the fitch and sheathed the wet dagger back into his belt. He approached the small crowd of Marshank settlers camped outside the gates.

"Who here wants to make a fortune?"

Several of the settlers yelled over one another to get the weasel's attention. Ander held up a paw, and pointed to the nearest adolescent beside him.

He pulled out a folded letter from his pocket and handed it over.

"Take this letter over to that army and hand it over to them."

The young teamster gawked at him. "Are you crazy? That army is the whole reason we're here-"

"Trust me." Ander handed over three silver coins. "When you come back here after the job is done, I'll pay you the rest."

He watched the messenger slowly but surely make their way toward the army.

"And now we wait," he chortled to himself, peeping back at the frozen gates.


	42. Sowing Season

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Sowing Season**

 _By: Laurence Copeland_

* * *

As the morning sun shone brightly through the clouds, the sounds of boisterous fighting fell into white noise while Laurence and Tope darted through the narrow Marshank alleyways.

Panting and heaving, the stoat fell to his knees and laid himself out against the snowy ground, while Laurence propped himself up with the corner of a stone building.

Laurence shook his head. "Not here. Not outside." He pointed a claw at the building across the street. "There... there. Over there."

He helped Tope inside of the run-down building. _It's a smithing place of sorts_ , the otter realized. It looked to be completely ransacked, with only a bookshelf and the circular furnace pit still remaining in the front room.

Right as they began sitting down on a fallen shelf the sounds of somebeast yelling drew their attention. Laurence tugged Tope by the sleeve and the two hid behind the still-standing bookcase. They hid themselves in the nick of time: a pair of weasels dressed in blue kicked open the wooden door and ambled inside.

Neither of the newcomers bothered with looking around the building before they sat themselves down on the fallen shelf Laurence and Tope were hiding behind.

"Ahh, they got me good in the footpaw, cully." The larger of the two weasels flexed each of the footclaws as he grimaced in pain, "I cain't walk so good no more."

His brother-in-arms kicked an empty barrel over and gave a low growl. "I knew it, I knew some army would come and attack us. Didn't I say that would happen?"

"That's right, Jink, ye sure did."

Laurence and Tope narrowly dodged the fragments of a clay pot thrown by the smaller weasel, shattering on the wall above them.

"We shoulda bailed, like Wimmick did. He's prolly halfway down t' Mossflower by now."

"Huh. That ain't too bad of an idea. What's err, stoppin' us from going down there ourselves?"

The stick-thin weasel raised his head and faced his comrade. "Nothin'… not a single thing, Gurn." Standing to his footpaws, he continued. "Should prolly search this place fer proper armor an' arms first, aye?"

"Ye can, Jink, but I need ta rest. Me footpaw hurts somethin' bad."

Scuffling against the stone floor prompted Laurence to cautiously chance a peek in between a row of books. He saw the smaller weasel moving around the fallen shelf toward the doorway beside the bookcase- the same one he and Tope hid behind.

The same moment Jinkpul crossed past the bookcase and into the doorframe, Tope and Laurence moved to the front side of the bookcase. Right in front of them Gurney was facing the opposite way.

Before the enemy could turn, Laurence dove behind rows of barrels filled with trash and discarded metal. Tope took the blood on his paws and rubbed against his tunic before lying on the ground and pretending to be dead.

Laurence saw the weasel Gurney still rubbing at his footpaw, facing the exit. He drew his dagger and prepared to rush at the oblivious enemy when Jinkpul came back into the room. He was carrying two newer-looking swords in both paws, and he handed one to his friend.

"A'right, let's leave this place, cully, an' we won't look back! I never liked it here much. Too cold an' empty, always talk o' war on our doorstep."

Gurney nodded. "We'll- we'll go t' Mossflower. I hear things are much simpler 'round there. Warm weather, no war or large armies- jus' so long as we don't go anywhere near that cursed abbey!"

With a sense of urgency, the two weasels marched out of the blacksmith's workshop.

"That's probably our cue to leave from here as well," muttered Laurence as he helped up Tope from the ground. "There is a place we need to go- this friend of mine, I need to see if they are alright-"

"And where would that be?"

Laurence never got the chance to reply. Screaming from outside compelled the two of them to run toward the entrance. Peeking outside, the otter saw one of the bluejacket weasels on the ground, feebly clutching an arrow through the chest.

Gurney scrambled back into the workshop only to be forced into a headlock and held at knifepoint by Laurence. "They killed Jinkpul, they killed 'im, they killed…"

"Shut up!" yelled Laurence. He tried to track the direction of the arrow and see where the archer might be hiding, but it proved fruitless. Since they were in the wealthier district of Marshank, rows of towers and windows gave numerous hiding places for the sniper. "I have an idea."

Minutes later, Laurence marched outside while still keeping Gurney ahead of him. Once they reached the corpse of the second weasel Laurence forced the hostage to face the column of buildings.

The plan worked; another arrow came sailing, and struck Gurney in the throat. He gasped in agony and fell to the ground. Laurence picked up the bow Jinkpul had been carrying, and rolled in time to avoid another arrow. While running to the next building over he tripped on the body of a deceased villager, and fell to the ground face first.

Muffled droning caused Laurence to pick his head up and see an arrow heading straight for him. He tried angling himself away. It cut across the side of his face.

 _Nowhere left to run._ Tope yelled something, but he couldn't hear. All he could focus on was his impending demise, arriving in the coming seconds. _I'm sorry, Mother. Shadder, Royen._

Kaboom! The watchtower in the row of buildings combusted, and debris flew in every possible direction. A large rock chunk landed to his right, and Laurence got over his shock just in time avoid another from crushing him.

Safely inside the two-story building across the street, the former mercenary headed up the stairs and peered out the window. Tiny specks -hundreds of them- moved toward the settlement. _They're all advancing now. The entire army. Those soldiers in the courtyard, they were only the vanguard._

"What in the Gates was that?!" yelled Tope, holding onto the railing of the stairwell for support.

"They're called catapults. They're like giant wooden bows that can hurl rocks, fire, anything really, hundreds of yards if made right." Laurence faced his friend. "We use them all the time back home, but I'm surprised to see them here. This is the first time I've seen one since I came to this continent."

He began trailing back down the stairs, the stoat hot on his heels. "We need to make doubly sure everybeast is evacuated from Marshank. Anybeast still here is going to be killed or taken prisoner by the approaching horde."

"Er, that's great an' all, but-"

"Let's pay a trip to the Arbington Inn. There's a couple creatures I need to see if they made it…"

"Laurence…"

"And then afterwards? We can hit the road and go far away from here. Maybe back to Hastings Hall. You would like it there. There's a tavern there, made entirely out of-"

"I'm going back to the Crucible."

The otter hesitated at the door frame. "The... Crucible? Why?"

"Fate has her own purpose for each o' us- you, me, everybeast. An' I finally know my purpose in Marshank: I'm supposed t' help all of 'em escape. The ones still in the Crucible, they need somebeast to come and rescue 'em. That's what I'm gonna do."

"That- but that's suicide…" Laurence shook his head. "If you go back, you will surely die."

"I have to."

Laurence could feel his eyes watering uncontrollably. He didn't want be left alone with his thoughts again. The words came tumbling from his mouth before he could stop himself, "Please don't leave, I've already lost everybeast I ever cared about…"

Tope spoke in a quiet, hushed tone. "Go to the Arbington an' wait fer me. An' then we will leave Marshank together. Jus' wait one day, that's all I'm asking, an' if I still don't show up, then go without me."

"I… I can't."

"Yes ye can. Keep your head up high, Laurence. We'll see each other again. I promise."

Laurence held out his paw. The stoat looked uncomfortable with the gesture, but he returned the handshake nonetheless.

"May the Fates guide you and keep you... be careful out there, Tope Benwrath."

"I will."

Laurence watched the stoat pick up one of the swords from the corpses outside and begin marching back toward the Crucible. He watched until his friend disappeared behind the large buildings of Marshank's Atonement District.

 _We must be strong now._ Laurence gripped Sondern against his back and pulled it out from the leather straps. He cradled the sword in his paws as he walked along the snow streets. _We have to be very strong. For the family._

And so, with all of his followers disbanded or killed, he set out towards the Arbington on his own.

~.~.~.~

Laurence regarded the wooden boards nailed over the front door with respect. By feeling them carefully, he could tell no frost or ice congealed to the boards yet. _So they're still fresh..._

Scanning the area for an open window, he saw one not quite boarded yet- on the first floor to the right. He felt the glass and saw the warping from the ice. He shattered the glass with a couple hard knocks and clambered inside.

To Laurence's dismay, somebeast came charging at him almost immediately, brandishing a knife: a lanky ferret in a discolored smock and apron. "Who are you? Are you with that army outside? What are you doing here?!"

Laurence raised his paws up in defense. "I'm a- a friend of Wander's. I'm here to help you."

"Oh... Ohhh! Well then! You must be Mister Laurence! What an honor it is to finally meet you." Putting away the knife, the ferret gave the newcomer a clap on the shoulder. "Are you here for Miss Wander? I'm her closest friend, you know…"

"Sure…"

"Then right this way, darling! She's with the others."

Laurence followed the strange cook through the Arbington's suffocating, labyrinthine halls. While they moved through the back rooms of the once-regal inn, the ferret had a knack for senseless talking, the otter soon discovered.

"-You work in the Crucible, do you not?"

"Err. Something like that. Listen, this is kind of urgent, I need to speak to everybeast that's hiding out here-"

"The Crucible is quite the ghastly affair! I used to have no earthly idea why Wander insisted on visiting that dreadful place, but after hearing about you-"

"Um…"

"-It all makes sense now. So you better treat her well, darling." The ferret shot a venomous glance back at Laurence, to the otter's surprise. "...Or else."

"Right _._ "

They came upon the main entrance lobby of the Arbington, where Wander and a cluster of other employees and townsfolk lingered about under the stairwell.

Wander's ears twitched as the sound of shuffling pawsteps behind her. "Emery, do you think we have enough food for-" She saw Laurence and her jaw dropped. "Laurence! What are you doing all the way here?"

"I came here to warn you. All of you." Laurence eyed everybeast in the room. "You cannot stay here in Marshank. The horde is advancing, and they will take no prisoners."

"We have nowhere else to turn," said one of the employees. "The Crucible will not take common folk, the weather is too harsh to travel away from the settlement. And besides, the confusing layout of the building can only aid us further. The Arbington is our only place of safety, otter."

The second employee spoke up, this one a mouse and wearing the same outfit as Emery, "That ain't no regular otter- look at that sword, that's the Frostfang!" The assistant cook grovelled at Laurence's footpaws. "Yore here to save us from those villains, ain't that right, Frostfang?"

"Um… I'll certainly try my best. But they outnumber us one hundred to one…"

Laurence turned at the sound of a dramatic gasp. Emery placed a paw on his chest, his jaw agape. "You're _the_ Frostfang?! Why, I never. You're the Crucible fighter who went off the deep end and started a war against Cain Seftis!" He pointed an accusing claw, "If any one of those bluejackets catches us working with you, we'll be thrown in a furnace and cooked alive!"

The comment hit the otter like a stone wall. He did not consider the fact that being a public enemy of the Crucible meant that if the town survivors associated with him, they too would be targets.

The former mercenary gave a nervous laugh and wrung his paws together. "Hah, yeah that wouldn't be very… good. I'm just gonna… go step out for a moment."

He subtly made a gesture for Wander to follow him out into the back office. She willingly followed. Once she was inside the office, he closed the door and gave her a big hug.

"How goes everything? Is everybeast treating you well since you came back?"

Wander nodded enthusiastically. "Treating you well… yes, they treat me very well! Like you would treat a fish. Or a market."

Laurence swallowed and began reciting the rehearsed speech he practiced on the way over to the Arbington. "Listen, I wanted to apologize for costing you all of your earnings. I'm sorry-"

"It's okay. My parents always said that money isn't everything."

Laurence pursed his lips before continuing. "But even still. I grew too cocky and made a bunch of silly mistakes. I can't stay here for long because a lot of beasts are very mad with me."

"Yes, I heard the rumors. They talk about ropes. But I like ropes, they remind me of when I was just a cub. We would use them for jump rope, and-"

"This is a different sort of thing. I've done bad things. Terrible things, even, but these are things that needed to be done." Laurence shook his head as if not even he could believe the words coming from his own mouth. "I made the mistake of thinking I could change the Crucible, when it only really changed _me._ "

Wander nodded slowly. "The Crucible does that a lot."

"Is there any chance I can stay here in the Arbington for the night? I would be more than happy to provide you and your friends with advice and any help that might be needed." _...Before I end up going my own way._

"Well, of course! You are always welcome here."

Laurence gave her another long hug. He tried his best to look happy as he pulled away, despite how heavy the weight of his actions felt.

He departed for the upper floors of the Arbington without another word. While he technically could have slept in any room he desired since the inn was temporarily closed down, the otter wanted to see the old suite he stayed in many weeks earlier. Thanks to the fact that so much time passed since his last visit, the searching took a while.

Outside the passing windows, the sound of a quiet rumbling never ceasing brought no ease of mind to Laurence.

Finally opening the door to the right room, he walked inside and took all of it in. The corners and edges of the blankets over the bed neatly tucked in. The floor swept and shining. He unbuckled the straps along his back and tossed Sondern onto the bed.

Yet unlike the other rooms, standing center on top of the table, was the bottle of Firefleck Mead. The same bottle from his first night in Marshank- before he knew about the Crucible and all the hidden injustice- before he knew about the exploitation of innocents- before Ansley, Wick, Bertram and so many others died because of his actions.

And this time, he broke in two.

Tears fell from his face to the floor unabated. Laurence brought himself to the floor and closed both eyes. _They're all dead because of me!_ He slammed his fist into the ground and roared. _All because of me, and the things I did._

Everybeast he came to know or love eventually left him at some point or another. _And those are the lucky ones, the ones who run away before I get them killed. Tope's doing the same._ His chest racked with heavy sobs while he clutched his face. _I brought this upon everybeast. I've made nothing but wrong choices. I never should have come here._

 _Perhaps this is the Fates trying to teach me a lesson._ "Haven't I suffered enough?!" he screamed at the ceiling. "What are you telling me?" _Perhaps they want me to suffer._

Much deliberation and time later. His aching paw finally brought him out from his wallowing. Laurence tenderly felt each of the claws for potential spraining or breakage, and when he felt none, the otter reached for the bottle. When he finished delicately peeling off the wrapping around the Firefleck. Once finished he raised the bottle up and faced the doorway with a nod.

"Clink."

Tipping up the bottle, Laurence drank deep for several moments. The fiery bite eventually seized him into a coughing fit. He wiped the dribble from his chin as he reflected on the metaphorical blood on his claws.

 _I can't beat myself up over what happened in the past. I did the right thing by standing up. I convinced others to do the same, like Tope Benwrath. I motivated them to stand up as well._

 _Better to live and regret than to have not lived at all._

Laurence slowly brought himself back to his footpaws, and a growing rumbling sound brought him to open up the windows of the room. Even louder it came as the otter poked his head out and faced away from the Crucible.

 _The army approaches ever closer... they will be here within the hour._

If there was a time to escape Marshank, the time would be now.

Laurence turned his back against the window and slumped down the wall. He vaguely recalled his time in the Helmsford military, capturing the survivors of the months-long siege of Darkfall. All the captives, so malnourished they could not even stand up on their own. But the head officers of the fortress? Each one of them still bright-eyed and with full bellies.

Yet all the same... officer and footsoldier alike, the Darkfall survivors suffered under Amadeus Copeland's outfit. In fact, not one of them made it to the internment camps.

 _And that will be my fate, if I decide to stay here._ The tears on his face drying, he tipped the bottle again and took another swig. _Another casualty to the growing list of this awful winter._ Laurence turned to the icicle sword on the bed.

"And what would you decide to do, if you were me? Hmm? Perhaps wait another day for Tope, or cut and run like we did all those other times?"

The sword did not respond, and continued to atrophy.

"No. No, that's not the same at all. It's completely different! That one time in the quarry… with those other mercenaries. How was I supposed to know the place was packed with snakes?" Laurence paused for a moment to take another drink. "Sondern. Do I have to remind you that the creature _paying us_ for the venture was one of the first ones killed inside that cave? Am I supposed to feel bad for abandoning a mission that I wasn't getting paid for? No! No, I won't let you guilt me on that one."

Laurence slowly picked himself up and chugged the bottle until empty, then chucked the bottle against the furthest wall. He watched with a small sense of pleasure at the combustion of glass shards in every direction, before clambering into the neat bed.

"I don't feel bad for having a sense of self-preservation. You of all creatures should know why I want- no, _need_ to survive. But I'm not going to leave here without Tope, either."

Perhaps he just needed a short nap. "I'm just tired is all. Yes, that's it. I just haven't been sleeping properly for the past few days. Just a… short nap… that is what I need..." He crawled under the blankets placed a pillow over his head.

~.~.~.~

Laurence awoke with a start, almost jumping out of the bed in fright.

Only when he realized the terrible visions were only dreams did his breathing slow down to a regular pace. _It was only a dream. Just a terrible, terrible dream._

While stepping out from the bed his footpaw sunk into a glass shard. The otter gritted his teeth and tried his hardest not to scream in agony.

Voices coming from outside the window quieted his cursing. He pulled out the shard and poked his head out the frame and looked down. Several torches dancing around the street, carried by armed soldiers. Dozens more of them were in dark.

"Keep moving those rocks. Anybeast caught slackin' will get the whip!" roared a voice from across the street.

The otter slowly closed the window panes shut. _Well then. I guess it's too late to do anything else now._ Laurence reckoned it would take a miracle for anybeast to escape Marshank in one piece at this time. _Just a couple more hours left. Tope should be back at any minute now._

 _And what if he doesn't come back?_

The former mercenary shook his head. _No. He'll be here no matter what. Tope wouldn't abandon me like that._

 _And if he doesn't come back..._

Laurence picked up a large shard of glass from the ground and stared at the reflection within.

 _What then?_

He threw the piece of glass away. "Then back to before," he muttered. "Back to the usual."

While strapping Sondern onto his back again, he thought again of Bechtel and Whip walking alongside each other. What were they doing together? Could Bechtel be the undercover agent working for the former captain? Whip mentioned to Laurence during his interrogation that somebeast he knew was an undercover spy.

 _No possible way._ The bat verbally attacked him in their first encounter when he mistook him for a slaver. _If Bechtel was the spy, then he's been giving the performance of a damn lifetime._

Hard as he tried, Laurence couldn't shake the feeling that there could be more things going on in Marshank that he didn't know about. Maybe Whip wanted revenge against the new captain, Wimmick? Perhaps the former deputy was smarter than he looked- maybe he set Whip up for failure and helped Molly and the others with the escape attempt.

 _No, that can't be it either. Tope would have mentioned something as crazy as that. I hope he's still alive._ He snapped back into focus and headed out of the room, looking for the stairs.

There at the top of the stairwell, Laurence found Emery, Wander and the cook's assistant quietly stacking objects over the entryway.

"Those rapscallions- they're downstairs. And probably raiding all my kitchen supplies- awful scoundrels!" Muttered the attenuated ferret.

"Are all the refugees upstairs?"

"What refugees?" snorted Emery's assistant cook. "We're all that's left. Including those two bartenders, and one patron. After hearing what ye said, the rest of the villagers wised up an' took off when they had the chance." Remembering who he was addressing, he changed the tone of his voice and placed a paw on Laurence's shoulder. "Which is why I'm glad you're here. We needed a fighter like you, and now we got one."

The otter nodded. "Right. I've been thinking about it, and perhaps I should get going on a scouting mission, seeing where exactly the soldiers are shoring themselves up in the Arbington."

"The majority of the voices are coming from the building next door, Pinkler's Tavern. You can access it from the roof an' see what they're up to."

Laurence gave a nod, then approached the window. Opening the panes he turned to the two cooks. "Board this window behind me. There might be an archer or two hiding out there."

The ferret cook's face fell at the command. "But Mister Laurence- how will you get back inside? All the other windows are boarded…"

"Err. Right. Scratch that, then. Even still, don't poke your head out of the window."

Very carefully Laurence began to maneuver himself -head first- out of the frame and into the blistering cold. Almost immediately after planting his foot paws against the slanted rooftop the otter nearly lost his balance. The sheet of ice congealing against the roof cracked and slid off, taking him with it. Grabbing the top of the nearest roof's cone saved him from certain demise.

Laurence could hear the sound of marching and voices below him. And despite his best intentions, he chanced a look below him. Dozens of soldiers pulled a catapult down the street from the inn. Others looked to be eating around a fire directly below the otter.

With one paw fighting the unbearable cold of the cone in his left paw, the other felt for a grip or foothold in the rooftop ahead with his other paw. Feeling another place to dig his claws into, Laurence worked around the side of the building until he reached a stone square where a statue used to be. With the tiny bit of extra room for comfort the otter tried hoisting himself onto the top of the rooftop- where a narrow strait made up the peak of the roof.

Once safely on the strait, he laid against the icy roof and took a breather. For the first time in the entire winter, Laurence found himself wishing a snowstorm -quite like the one from yesterday- would show up.

 _If only to mask the sound of my movement. Just my luck._

Reaching the other side of the building, Laurence gritted his teeth and delicately turned himself around. He placed his paws around the closest roof cone and planted both feet against the incline of the roof. Turning his body back around, he faced the roof of the tavern.

He swung his paws behind him and jumped.

For one single tense moment, he felt himself rushing toward the earth and his heart stopped. Another moment passed and both arms crashed hard against the top of the flat tavern roof. His head knocked against the wood, footpaws hanging loosely further down.

In a scramble to avoid detection, Laurence placed his footpaws against the window pane ledge leveled with his footpaws. He slipped through the stone window and looked around the room.

 _They must have heard all that racket. No way they didn't_. He glanced around the room for a place to hide, but saw none. _Just a simple privy. It's over..._

The sound of thumping coming from right outside of the privy confirmed Laurence's suspicions. He drew Sondern from his back and braced himself for a brawl. He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth at the door.

White noise.

He gripped the handle of Sondern tighter and raised the weapon above his head.

Another clattering from outside the washroom, and the thumping slowly receded.

Laurence carefully approached the room's exit. Wrapping his claws against the door, the otter mentally prepared himself for whatever came next. He cracked open the door and peered through the crevice. Nothing. He opened it wider and the hinges squeaked, causing him to jump with fright and force himself forward.

Pulling into the main open room of the circular tavern, he sharply swiveled right. Ahead of him stood a burly rat staring at a painting on the wall. His ears perked up at the sound of the otter's incoming footfalls.

Swiveling again, Laurence entered into another room of the tavern behind the rat. He brought the door almost completely closed but not entirely.

The room looked to be a chancery, for the former owner of the tavern. In the corner of the room, a mattress lay on top of a wooden oak frame, and against the opposite wall included a bookshelf and a wooden desk. In the back end of the room was a furnace. And above it laid an expansive painting of a hedgehog with a dour expression.

The door behind him began creaking open. With only seconds to find a hiding place, he eyed the bed. Then looked to the desk. And then finally the furnace.

He darted under the bed.

Laurence listened to the door knock into the wood of the room as it came to a stop. The shuffling of paws, then silence.

"By the Gates. I must be going crazy."

Again, the footfalls receded, and Laurence sighed deeply. After about a minute of dead silence he began crawling out from under the bed.

The door slammed open again and the sounds of more than one creature entering the room.

"That courier of theirs delivered this letter an hour ago. The letter looks written by the King, aye? It's not. Look closely at the handwriting in the second portion. The B's and R's are traced all wrong."

"What are you trying to say, Goran? That somebeast from the Crucible is trying to pass off a fake letter?"

"That is exactly what I am saying. And more like than not, this letter is solid proof that our King is dead."

The bold conclusion met with terse silence. Finally, the subordinate responded, "No, I cannot believe that, he cannot be dead. Not after everything we have been through to get him back-"

"We must all face the truth at some point. Why not face it sooner?" Laurence heard the speaker sigh deeply. "Black-hearted or not, Vikkars would have been a fine commander. I cannot help but feel responsible for the tragedy."

"So what happens now?"

"We take over Marshank, with as little bloodshed possible. As I understand it, the locals pay substantial fees to watch the arena fights. If we can conquer the Crucible and run the place ourselves…" The voice gave a loud cough, giving Laurence a start. "Then we can fund our future endeavours in taking back Illmarsh-"

"An excellent plan to continue taking over Marshank, but what about our homeland? What about Illmarsh? Do we let the insurgents take our kingdom and claim it for their own?"

"The Drugaen clan is dead. Going back home and fighting the insurgents would be akin to dying for a dead beast's honor. Forget Illmarsh, comrade. Marshank will be our new home." A scraping noise against the stone floor, as though somebeast moved something heavy. "Now leave me, Cornem. I wish to gather my thoughts in peace."

The door slammed shut, and the otter heard Goran lying down into the bed of the room.

 _So Vikkars is most likely dead now._ Laurence felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. _That monster most definitely deserved what was coming to him!_ He began to crawl back down the chimney into the furnace but gave pause. _That general, he's still in the room. I guess that means I'll have to wait for him to leave the room or fall asleep..._

And so he waited, listening carefully for any audible clues that Goran was asleep.

~.~.~.~

After nearly an hour of lying in wait, Laurence finally heard the other creature snoring. The otter eased the muscles in his back and his legs before sliding out from under the bed.

Standing tall, he observed the grizzled mountain weasel sprawled across the bed. _So this must be the one called Goran._

The general of Vikkars' army laid before him, completely defenseless.

Laurence began to untie the leather straps keeping Sondern against his back.

He gripped the handle and slowly tugged the weapon loose.

The former mercenary raised Sondern over his head.

 _I can end the conflict right here and now, maybe save countless innocent lives._

Laurence lowered the sword.

 _And yet, at the same moment, Goran and his army could destroy the Crucible. Rain down a long awaited time of reckoning for the Seftis brothers..._

He raised the weapon once more, and narrowed his eyes.

 _No. They're not going to destroy the Crucible. He plans on keeping the place up and running._

Lowering the weapon, he placed a paw on his face in frustration.

 _So I guess I'll truly be damned either way. No matter what I do, this place is done for._

Laurence eyed the painting behind him. He muttered under his breath, "What am I thinking, anyway? Killing a creature in their sleep. That's something that a filthy westerner would have done."

Sheathing the weapon, the otter's train of thought finally back around to Tope Benwrath. _The stoat isn't coming back for you, Laurence. You've done your part. Tope, Bechtel and the others can take care of the rest. It's time to go back home to Helmsford. Time to go back home._

 _It's been twelve seasons._

"Twelve seasons… has it really been that long?"

 _Aye._

"What if they don't want me back?"

 _That's something we'll have to deal with when the time comes. But your family is going to need you. And your kingdom, too. Just get up and walk away from here- even if it takes you a lifetime to get back home._

 _It's not too late._

Goran finally stirred from his deep slumber.

After giving a big yawn, the elder weasel shook the settling cold from his weary body. His strained eyes took a moment to slowly adjust into the dark room.

Light and snow were filtering inside- after somebeast left the window open, he realized. Picking himself up, he approached the empty window; with his good arm he reached for the panes to close them when he caught sight of a single figure out in the distance.

A lone figure, darting across the melting snow fields. Heading away from the settlement and toward the marsh trees.


	43. Waters of Jericho

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Waters of Jericho**

 _By: Bechtel_

* * *

 _The twining of lives never ceases to amaze me. We have such a narrow view of life, though that is only natural for beings of thought. Martin-knows I am guilty of such selfishness. But time grants us small mercies in perspective._

 _In their own ways – some too small to grasp – the lives of each of these beasts were inseparable. They are like threads in a weaving, each necessary to complete the final tapestry._

 _And here, amid the horns of war and roar of battle, many threads weaved to their end._

 _~.~.~.~_

His claw cracked free of the lock, and the door remained shut before him. Bechtel growled, delivering a weak kick against its frame. He clicked his tongue, ears flicking about as he translated the sounds to sight once more. He found no help behind the jar-lined shelves, or under the paper-strewn desk, or within the blanket-swaddled bed.

He staggered over to the bed and sat on its edge. Three days had passed since Gromo delivered him to Truson's quarters. The rat left immediately to rejoin his captain, while the hare set about slathering ointments and feeding elixirs.

The first day was largely lost to his memory. He recalled only shivers and the fire of sickness. The world seemed only to press down, deeper and deeper. He recalled trying to voice his regrets-to apologize for his oafish, unfettered, idiotic treatment of the hare. Truson interrupted him at each turn, shushing him sharply and ordering him to rest.

The second day brought the beginning of clarity, as well as confusion. He heard shouts beyond the door, and could feel the thump of beasts rushing to and fro. The hare's visits lessened greatly as well, appearing only to change bandages before whisking away out of the door once more.

By the third day, the chills faded. The shouts beyond the door grew louder, with screams intermingled. When Truson arrived, Bechtel greeted the hare on his own two feet.

"I… wanted to apologize," Bechtel had said. "Everything you told me, you were-"

"No talkin'," Truson snapped. "Save your words for when they matter."

It had been then that Bechtel saw just how haggard the hare looked. His eyes were sunken beneath heavy brows, his voice was raw and cracked from use, and his movements sagged underneath an uncharacteristic slowness.

"What… what is happening out there?" he then asked.

Truson did not answer, not even as he left the room, disappearing once more in the churning, uncertain world beyond.

Today, Truson had not come.

Something was wrong. The hare's absence and weakened disposition only confirmed it. He felt it in the stone, as more and more beasts charged their way through the halls beyond.

 _It must be the army. They've attacked,_ he thought. _And if so, what then? Is the Crucible losing? What about the slaves?_

He could stay no longer. Whip's promise lay threadbare and more uncertain with every passing day. And so Bechtel set about considering his next move. He needed to find Ander and secure the weasel's safety. Perhaps among the confusion of war, he could slip through unnoticed. Though, even if he could get Ander out of the Crucible, how could he guarantee the weasel's safe passage through a war-embattled Marshank?

Hours passed, and every plan he conceived failed in some way. Uncertainties upon uncertainties plagued him. He didn't know enough, or he wasn't capable enough-it was never _enough_.

The clack of the door's lock broke him from his thoughts. Truson entered, his steps slow and swaying. He shut the door behind him, wandered to the shelves, procured one of the many jars, then stopped. For some time, he did not move.

Bechtel drew in a breath to make his appeal.

"You can't stay here."

The broken whisper did not issue from his lips. He stared in shock, wondering if the voice had been nothing but an echo of his imagination.

Truson pulled another jar free, set them on his desk, then opened a drawer and procured a small cloth sack.

"Twice a day," Truson said, slipping the jars into the sack. "Only a little bit of each-don't waste them, and don't stop until you can breathe without wheezin'. You'll know when." He tied the sack shut with a loop of cord. "Stay as warm as y' can. Never sleep without a fire going, but don't be a fool about it."

The hare spoke with his usual cold efficiency, marred only by the ragged drawl that scarred every other word, but something new lay hidden underneath them both. The sagged shoulders, the listless eyes, the sullen movements-Bechtel recognized the marks of despair.

"What is it?" Bechtel asked. When the hare did not respond, Bechtel stood up. "What's happened, Truson?"

Truson set his paws against the edge of the desk. "They're past the gates, now. Heard the gate splinterin' even back in my shop. Tried to do what I could. Never endin' line of bodies t' patch. ...won't do them much good now."

Bechtel stepped forward and grabbed the hare's arm. "Truson, stop! You're not making any sense!"

Truson did not pull his arm free. He slowly turned, fixing the bat with a dark expression. "It's war, lad. Bloomin' war on a full stage. Haven't seen the likes of it since…" He chuckled dryly. "Well, that's ancient history." Like dripping candlewax, the grim smile slithered from his lips. "I know how this ends. Bloodshed and death. Best t' leave while y' still can, lad."

He pressed the sack into Bechtel's claws, but the bat tossed it to the bed. "Truson, are the slaves all right? Are they safe?"

Truson sighed. He looked caught between falling to the ground asleep or breaking into tears. "Listen t' me, lad. Forget the slaves. Forget the Crucible. Forget it all." He picked the sack up from the bed and pressed it to Bechtel once more. "Go. Leave this place."

The bat gripped the bundle this time, tender in his claws. "I… I can't just leave. I have a friend I owe a debt to. I have to make things right, but… but…" He winced, feeling the chill of the dungeon grip his heart once more-the pains and regrets revived. "...but I don't know how."

Truson sighed. "This isn't a good time for indecision and debts, lad. World's on fire. It'll reach you too, if'n you don't run."

"Run? Running is what got me here in the first place." Bechtel let out a hazy, nervous laugh which quickly descended to shuddering. "No. No more. I can't take any more of it-the guilt, the blame. It's so... _heavy_ , Truson." He gripped the bundle tighter, feeling his breath turn shallow and panicked. "I thought that maybe the Crucible had the answers. If it was actually a righteous place, then my death could pay for everything I've done, but… I don't believe that now. It's a lie. The Crucible is just as corrupt as the beasts that run it." He pressed a claw to his eyes. "I was so wrong, about so much, but I don't know how to fix it."

He felt a paw rest on his shoulder, and he blinked through tears to see Truson's tired gaze turn sober.

"Lad… if you figure that out, you'll answer the pain in every beast's heart." The hare paused for a moment. "You asked me once how I could do it. Heal these beasts, when they deserved t' die."

Bechtel slowly nodded. He remembered it, as well as the cutting words that surrounded the question. Further apologies bubbled in his throat, but Truson continued.

"Death comes for us all, lad. It's the one thing none of us can avoid-that falling hourglass that inevitably breaks upon our deathbed. It's the one great uniter, even among vermin and woodlanders." He sighed. "And maybe we all deserve it. These deservin' paws fixin' deservin' bodies… it's what we do, 'til our time runs its course."

Bechtel's shoulders sank. "...then what hope do any of us have?"

"I don't know. I stopped lookin' for answers. Guess you were right about that too-I'm a coward, in my own way." His lip twitched upwards, but no smile emerged. "Y' know, I used to be jus' like you. Had too much fire in my blood t' settle. I lost that, somewhere along the way." His brow drew firm as he focused on the bat. "If y' find any hope out there, lad... be sure to share it with the rest of us."

"I don't know where to start," Bechtel whispered.

Truson chuckled and pointed. "Starts out that door."

Bechtel looked at the door. He heard the distant shouts that lay beyond it, edged with pain and fear. The world awaited him. The strife, the tragedy, the regrets amalgamated into a tower of flailing claws seeking purchase.

Bechtel hugged the sack closer to himself and felt his breaths run cold. "...can you come with me?"

"Look at me, lad." Truson gestured to himself. "These old bones aren't fit for runnin' anymore."

Bechtel bit at his lip as he studied the hare's exhausted form. "But... you'll die."

Truson considered this, then nodded. "My home is here. Perhaps before my sand runs out, I can save a few more beasts, and just maybe they'll have a chance for somethin' better, like you."

With a heavy heart, Bechtel stepped towards the door and set a claw upon it. For a long time, he just stood there, listening to the chaos that awaited him. Doubt pulled at him, and he turned to face Truson.

"Don't look at me," Truson barked. "Eyes forward, lad! Shoulders straight. Walk true."

Bechtel felt his fur prickle at the sharp tone in Truson's voice. Without even seeing the hare, he could hear the flicker of the warrior-beast within once more surfacing.

"Now go."

And so Bechtel did.

~.~.~.~

 _Madness,_ the echoes told him.

It was the only word he could hear before his sight crumbled underneath the roaring world around him. It alone was not strong enough.

The Crucible halls flooded with beasts rushing the wounded to the infirmaries or simply fleeing for their lives. Screams and moans and orders alike pierced the air, suffocating one another under the smell of blood and panic. Bechtel forced himself to keep a claw on the wall just to steady his trembling knees beneath him.

This, he realized, is what war felt like.

He forced himself to breathe, letting the fear subside within his chest. Despite the beasts running around him, he saw no sight of the invaders and gathered that he must be away from the frontlines of the conflict. It was a small mercy, but he knew his time grew more and more short.

Sending out a series of chitters, he scanned the river of beasts before him. Plentiful collars flickered upon the waves, the slaves just as unwilling to die by the paws of the invaders as the guards and volunteers, but he saw no sight of the beast for whom he searched.

 _Ander, where are you…? You can't be dead. Please, don't be-_

He stopped upon the echoes brushing past a familiar face. Tope trudged among the rushing tide, his lanky frame wedged to support the sunken form of a bulky hedgehog. On closer inspection, Bechtel recognized the other beast as August.

August suddenly slid down, crashing to the floor. None of the running beasts seemed to notice, trudging over him in their haste. Tope dragged August to the edge of the hallway and propped him up against the wall, shouting something unheard over the din.

Weaving between the rushing beasts, Bechtel approached the pair, and soon caught their voices underneath the surrounding roar.

"-do that?!" Tope snapped. His expression twisted with anger, yet Bechtel noticed tears in his eyes. "Why me?!"

"Made sense at the time. I-" August lurched forward, blood spurting out from a series of coughs.

Bechtel then noticed the hedgehog's paw clutching at his stomach, holding his own organs from spilling out a devastating gash. Bechtel rushed forward, though as soon as he neared, Tope tensed and reached a bloody paw to the dagger tucked through his belt. Bechtel stepped back as the knife swung wide, then the two beasts caught each other's gaze. Confusion flickered across Tope's face, but he shook this aside and secured the blade.

"Help me with him," Tope said, reaching once more for August's arm.

The hedgehog flinched at his touch and waved a paw weakly. "No… no, I know when my time's come." He sucked in a sharp breath of air, then shuddered. "We did good, Tope. Gave as many beasts a chance as we could."

Bechtel straightened. "Beasts?" He turned to Tope. "Did you free the slaves?"

"Bechtel…?" His name prompted him to look at August, who regarded him with a crumpled, saddened gaze. "...must be seein' things now. Heh… Don't suppose you'll be the only beast hauntin' me..."

Bechtel knelt by the hedgehog's side, but the words didn't come. He could only look at the pitiful beast, knowing everything within his means was useless in helping in any way.

August winced, and did not open his eyes. His head lolled to face Tope. "Guess it was fate that I save one Benwrath…"

A final, wheezing breath issued from the hedgehog, quickly lost under the tide of chaos that surrounded them. Tope swept his paws across his face, leaving streaks of fresh blood to trail down like tears.

A guttural shout broke over the cloud of screams, "They've broken past the Hall of Champions! Retreat to the beachhead!"

Bechtel pressed himself against the wall as the panicked rushing turned even more chaotic, the sounds choking whatever sight his echoes afforded him. In his blindness, he felt a paw grasp his wing and tug him forward. He allowed himself to be pulled along, bracing himself against the flailing limbs that struck him as he was led through the river of beasts.

Soon, the cries and panic subsided into the distance, and once more, Bechtel could speak and see. Tope led the way, pulling him along a side hall absent of fleeing beasts.

"Come on," Tope's voice issued raw and cold, "I know a way out. They won't bother with two beasts escapin'."

Bechtel pulled his wing from Tope's grasp. "Tope, wait. I need to know."

The stoat's hurried pace staggered, and he turned to face Bechtel.

"Ander. Is Ander still here, or is he safe?"

To his surprise, Tope's expression darkened. "That blackheart? I'd sooner kill him myself."

"W-what?" Bechtel stepped forward. "What are you-"

"This is _his_ fault!" Tope snarled, swinging a paw back the way they had come. "All of this is his fault!"

Bechtel watched any trace of sorrow burn from Tope's face, rage rippling across his neckline down to the whites of his knuckles. In that moment, Bechtel realized that in his absence, the entire world had gone very, very wrong.

Bracing himself for answers he did not want, Bechtel set a firm claw on Tope's shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "Do you know where I can find him?"

~.~.~.~

This high up, the sounds of battle issued hazy under the whirl of the wind. Past the lonely stone parapets of the Crucible's battlements, Bechtel saw the last few groups of beasts fighting by the shattered gates. Hundreds lay dead, whether they be clad in iron, jacket, or common thread.

The disgust and horror ebbed distant within Bechtel, numbed by too much suffering, but he forced himself to look.

There, at the far end of the battlements, perched against the ledge, he saw Ander. He did not recognize the weasel. Not due to the frock coat tattered beyond repair, not due to the scars marring his once-fair features, not due to the iron crown propped atop his head with strips of dry flesh hanging from it.

It was his smile. The lines of his mouth curled, twitched, spasmed like a parasite discontent with its host. Like a plague, it spread to the rest of him: his eyes drinking the carnage below, his tail curling in delight, his body shivering with excitement.

Bechtel felt the piercing, consuming cold of the dungeon grip his heart once more. He remembered the moment when Ander's hope flickered out in that desolate place, and he feared to wonder what had filled the void in the forsaken weasel.

And in spite of his terror, Bechtel felt his legs moving beneath him, bringing him closer.

"Look at it," Ander suddenly said. "Look at all of them scurrying around like insects." He giggled, the sound squirming and chittery. "I see now why Cain liked the fights so much, to see all those little beasts do anything to survive."

Bechtel tried to speak, but could not find his voice.

"Would you believe I'm still not tired of this after three days? It's the _anticipation_ of it. For this: the finale." Ander's claws scraped atop the stone parapets. "The screams of the wretches once the gates cracked in two. The crunching of bones and the splitting of flesh. It's like… music, really. Ohhh, you should have been here."

Ander turned. His smile twitched sporadically, and he took a shaky step towards Bechtel. "Where were you, Bechtel? All this time, hiding away?" Another step. The smile faltered. "Where were you, Bechtel?" Another step. More grit into his words. "Only decided to show yourself now, is it?"

Bechtel glanced to the army they overlooked, to the carnage he could still not grasp. He turned back, focusing on the iron crown adorning the weasel's head. "Ander… what have you done?"

Ander stopped. Then he began to tremble. "What I've done...? What _I've_ done?!" The smile slithered away. The scars deepened. A primal, gurgling sound rose from within the weasel. "You did this to me!" he screamed, voice shattering over the surrounding roar. "Look at me! You took _everything_ from me!"

Bechtel winced, staggering backwards. "Ander, I-"

"I trusted you! I believed in you! I thought that maybe, _finally,_ I had found a beast who could bother to _tolerate_ my presence. Who just _maybe_ actually wanted to be my friend!" He slammed his fist into the wall. "But you were the worst of them all!"

"I know!" Bechtel shouted back. He clutched at his chest, but the words poured out in spite of the pain, "It _is_ my fault, Ander! I was wrong about everything, and you suffered because of my selfishness!" He slammed his claws into his head, over and over again. "And I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for it all!"

Ander blinked at him, then snarled once more. "Do you think that makes up for _any_ of this?"

"No! No, it doesn't, and that's the worst part of it! I can't take it back. I can't fix this. I can't undo the pain I've caused!"

"Then why are you here?"

Bechtel blinked away the hot tears clouding his eyes. "I… I had to come back. I had to try and… oh… oh Spirits, I never thought this would be what I…" He steadied himself, feeling the world grow woozy and distant. "Ander… this isn't you. Please tell me this isn't you."

Ander straightened up, peering down at the pleading bat. "The Ander you knew, the Ander you _fooled,_ was an idiot. He played your game, played the nice beast, and look at where it got him?" He began to pace, slowly encircling the bat as if prowling upon some prey. "I learned fast, so I killed that Ander. I stopped taking the world for what I wanted it to be, and realized what it had been the entire time: a hunting ground, where only vermin thrive. Should have listened to all those stories about my father. Seems he had it right, after all."

Ander reached into his pocket. Bechtel stiffened when he saw the weasel withdraw a small vial, exactly the same as the poison he'd once held.

"Vikkars thought he could use me. That I'd be a good little servant." Ander's lips parted to reveal fangs. "I killed him. Made him suffer, then I quenched his thirst and his life. But that wasn't good enough. They _all_ needed to pay for what they did to me."

"You've killed them _all!_ " Bechtel shouted. "Not just the guards, but the slaves, and the citizens!"

"They deserve it!" Ander snapped. "Each and every one of them!"

"Maybe they do! Maybe we all do!" Bechtel staggered back. "I… I don't know how to navigate a world where that's the case. What hope do any of us have, then?"

"Hope scarred me." The smile wriggled its way back onto his face. "Who needs it? Look at what I've done for myself already. I've freed myself from my collar, brought the Crucible down, and soon, I'll have my very own horde to control." He stepped forward, and Bechtel backed against the parapets. " _Me._ I did this!"

Bechtel stared at the beast that was his friend. "Ander… please… Please stop."

"I don't need your sympathy. And I don't want it."

Then Ander moved. Bechtel saw the weasel rush forward, but his limbs managed no response. He felt the paws strike his chest. Felt the parapet press into his spine. Felt the world spin and a sudden lurch of gravity.

He remembered falling, and nothing else.

~.~.~.~

" _Let me see it."_

" _But it hurts!"_

" _That's why I need to see it."_

" _...is it bad?"_

" _Hmm… it'll require a visit from Celandeer, to be sure."_

" _Noooo… please not her! She's always so mean!"_

" _Oh, you don't mean that. In fact, she's told me that she's rather taken by you."_

" _Bleck."_

" _And she always brings by those lovely gooseberry tarts!"_

" _Bleck!"_

" _Ha ha, I'll be sure you won't have to eat one this time. I promise. Come along, let's get you back to the house."_

" _...are you angry at me?"_

" _What? Why would I ever be angry at you?"_

" _Well… you said I wasn't ready to fly so high yet, and… and you were-ow! Ow!"_

" _Careful. Try not to move your wing."_

" _Okay… … ...so are you mad?"_

" _I'm mad that you're in pain. I hate that you can get hurt, which is why I warned you not to fly so high yet. But I'm not mad at you."_

" _Why not?"_

" _You sound like you_ want _me to be mad at you."_

" _..."_

" _...why do you want me to be mad at you?"_

" _Because I messed up! Because I didn't listen to you. I do feel bad, and I_ should _feel ba-ow!"_

" _Easy now. Don't move it."_

" _I know, I know…"_

" _...so. Do you think it would help? If I was mad at you?"_

" _...no, but it feels like I deserve it."_

" _Ah, deserve. Do you think Martin deserved all the troubles that found him in life?"_

" _No."_

" _Do you think that Ruska deserved to be forgiven her theft, before she became a Sister of Redwall?"_

" _...no."_

" _Do you think Dingeye and Thura deserved their fate, when it was a mere accident that sent them running away?"_

" _...yes?"_

" _Bechtel."_

" _...no. I guess not."_

" _And what have I ever done to deserve the blessing that is you, my son?"_

" _...I don't know."_

" _Neither do I, and yet here you are. It is not for us to keep count of what we do or do not deserve-only to act in accordance with that which is before us. To rejoice in the good, and mourn the bad. The grace of rain brings life, but it also brings sickness if you stay outside too long. "_

" _I don't understand."_

" _Then let me put it this way: it doesn't matter what you do or don't deserve. You're my son, and I love you. ...even when you go and nearly break your wing!"_

" _Hee-haha! Father, stop! You promised to stop tickling me!"_

" _And you promised not to fly so high."_

" _Okay, okay… … ...I love you too, Father. Thank you."_

 _~.~.~.~_

Bechtel awoke. He shot upright, spreading snow from overtop himself as he gasped in lungfuls of air. His body ached with every breath, but gradually, his senses came to focus.

The thrum of his heart filled his ears, and he realized that he heard nothing else. The sounds of battle no longer surrounded him. The roars of dying and hungry beasts no longer blinded him. In its place, a still dark reigned, snuffing out the sky that had burned above.

Bechtel shook the frost from his wings, looking to them for answers. He found the sewn strip torn and sagging, but holding firm. The fall was a blur in his memory, but he remembered the rush of air gripping at him, stretching his wings out to answer their call.

He turned and clicked, searching the Crucible's wall towering above him. No beasts wandered the height. Ander was gone.

He had been too late. The damage was done. His friend was gone, swallowed by scars and poison.

No tears came. The despair and devastation churned hollow within Bechtel, their pains already spent upon his tired mind.

Hugging his wings around himself, Bechtel stood and walked.

Bodies littered Justice Road, the plain armor of the northern legions intermingled with red-flecked bluejackets. Bechtel looked past them to the great gates of the Crucible lying shattered and splintered. He wondered which army had won. He wondered if, in the end, it even mattered.

He turned and continued on into the streets of Marshank. More bodies littered the cobblestone, though not nearly in the same density, and most were civilians. Bechtel recognized none of them, but each face prompted him-what did they do to deserve this fate? Was there even an answer?

He left the alleyways and bodies behind, and stopped briefly in Captain Whip's hideaway. The captain was gone, as was Gromo. He pulled a burlap sack free from a shelf, then gathered what food he could find among the detritus.

Leaving the shack, he clicked and listened to the description of Marshank City behind him.

 _...cold. Empty. Quiet. A broken place._

Sorrow welled up within him. For the regrets, for the mistakes, for the beasts gone too soon, for the miseries piled high, for the blood-stained sand, for the broken hopes, for the unjustness of it all. It weighed too heavy upon his shoulders. There was nothing left for him there.

He considered the cobblestone market far from this land, where Gurry had bled under his blows. He didn't even know if the mole lived or not-back then, his only concern had been slaking his need for justice. And his thoughts extended beyond, to a dozen other lesser crimes that still weighed upon him. And at the root of it all, the dead Gerthwin patriarch, shattered under his furious blows. He wondered if the family still searched for the murderer.

He had no answers, but he at least knew where to start. Somehow, someday, he would return to each of those places, and settle his debts, even if it ended with his death. Perhaps then he would find an answer to it all.

Bechtel turned. He stepped into the outskirts, and left Marshank behind him.


	44. Flitting

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Flitting**

 _By: Ander_

* * *

Ander was surrounded by chaos and death. The screams of fighting creatures rang and vibrated through his constantly-twitching ears, and smoke oozed through the air like suffocating fog.

The Crucible was coming down, and Ander was on top of it all. He had lost a considerable amount of soldiers when breaching the place, and now that the fighting had grown in intensity it did not seem like either side was on top.

Fires blazed, weapons clashed, and structures toppled to the ground. His best friend had fallen, pushed by his own claws.

 _How entertaining. If anything left in the world is delightful, it must be this._

Sinister giggles escaped his teeth like hiccups. He could leave. Besides watching the rest of the fight, there was no reason for him to stay here-his plan had worked. All of the creatures in this crumbling place were getting their dues, and he had returned to make sure of it, and _he_ had gotten the best view.

Shuddering in something resembling delight, Ander turned and rushed back down the flaming stairs. The raucous chaos grew louder, assailing his ears.

Upon emerging from the smoking stairwell, a small white stoat darted in front of him and was impaled by a spear, the harsh laughter of the fox who had attacked her lifting loudly, drowning out the screams.

Ander darted past before the creature caught wind of him.

It was _his_ soldier that had fallen, but the weasel couldn't care. The exit yawned up above the fray. He snaked in and out of the fighting creatures with careful ease, and in turn none of the beasts took notice of him, too busy with the slaughter to pay heed.

None except a grizzled mountain weasel, busied by a fight with a fox in a blue coat.

The ferret landed a blow on the fox's upper shoulder and slid back, kicking up dirt. He eyed Ander credulously. "You! You have the Iron Crown! Lend your beasts a paw!"

Ander now recognized the beast-Vikkars' right-paw deputy, Goran. _Tut-tut, Goran,_ mused Ander as he raced past and flashed a grin. _You are merely my smoke and mirrors!_

He saw Goran's jaw drop, and then square, as the mountain weasel was pulled back into his fight.

~.~.~.~

Night arrived sooner than Ander thought. The exhausted weasel plopped onto his knees before the pile of gathered twigs. He pushed his crown higher on his head, took two of the sticks, and began to rub them together.

 _Cursed snow, making everything so damp._

The dark, soggy bark merely peeled off of the twigs and landed in the snow. Shivering, Ander rose, and swung a footpaw at the pile, sending the branches flying.

"Blasted cold!" he snarled, trudging off.

If he couldn't make a fire, he would find warmth some other way. He was bound to run in to a traveler, or a cabin, or _something_ other than frost and trees.

Ander thrust his paws inside the oversized sleeves of his frock coat, icy breath swirling out in front of his nose. He hoped strongly to stumble over a bottle of wine and drink his mind away, but all that passed underneath was snow.

Images flashed through his mind of crimson spots cutting through its white crispness.

 _I hate winter._

Grinding his teeth, the weasel looked up, the scent of smoke once again rending the air. Didn't he leave that behind at the Crucible? He staggered towards the source: an orange light in the gloom. _Flickering, flickering._ He felt drunk.

Black, bare trees rose up on all sides, obscuring his vision. Ander shambled towards the campfire, his paw on his dagger.

Sitting in front of the flames, with its back turned, was a huddled creature.

The weasel caught his breath. It couldn't be...oh, but sure enough, the bat's scent enveloped him, screaming "Bechtel!" too loud for Ander to second-guess it. He took a step forward.

 _Crunch._

The bat whirled around to face him. Ander expected to see once more the terror, the whimpering piteous _horror_ mark his former friend's face. The bat mustered no such reaction, regarding him with only a tired, distant look.

"What do you want with me?" he murmured.

Ander stalked towards him, his eyes glinting murderously. "I'm taking this fire from you- so up and run before I decide that I would rather have your pelt."

Bechtel rose from his place but made no move to leave.

He bared his teeth. "How many died, Ander? Do you even know?" He made a chittering sound, ears swiveling. "And where's your army now?"

Ander should have known that his ex-friend was going to spout words. His lip curled. Dry laughter rose up and then lodged in his throat, making him wheeze. He raised his dagger.

"A glorious many, Bechtel. But not enough." The weasel circled the bat, slowly, as would a slithering snake sizing up its prey. "Some fled. Like _you_."

Bechtel scuttled back.

"And my army? It's right on my heels, _waiting_ , until I return to lord over it."

Ander lunged forth, cutting the air with his dagger like mad, and knocking Bechtel over in the process. He towered over him and sliced down, and Bechtel threw out his claw and caught the weasel's wrist, holding it with all his strength back from his chest.

"Ander, stop this!" the bat yowled.

Ander shoved his arm against Bechtel's, trying to get him to buckle. "You chose not to run..."

In a desperate last effort, Bechtel gathered all his strength and pushed up and over, throwing Ander down. The gruesome silver crown slid from the weasel's head, as well as the dagger from his paw. Bechtel seized the weapon, leapt on him, and pinned him face-up in the snow.

Hissing nastily, Ander wriggled like a headless worm.

"Let me up!" he bawled.

"Why, Ander?!" Bechtel roared, chest heaving. Ander stopped squirming when he saw the knife wavering above him. "Why? There's no coming back from this! All the blood on your paws-it'll _never_ wash clean!" A strangled breath issued from the bat, and the knife lowered. "...Do you even realize what you've done?"

Ander locked eyes with his enemy, looked at his harsh, upset, almost _betrayed_ expression, and showed his teeth. The scars which marred his face contorted and twisted with the grimace, and he, too, felt short of breath.

"Yes," he whispered, smiling morosely. "Of course I do. _I_ am the one that realizes."

The anger and betrayal in the bat's face vanished, replaced by a sullen blankness.

Ander's smile fell as he tried to pin the bat's emotions-recognition, sorrow, regret? No, surely the bat was not capable of such introspection. It had to be something more common and selfish.

Pity.

Yes, surely Bechtel _pitied_ him, for the bat was high and mighty, and completely unable to look upon his work with a single hint of remorse!

Silence followed, and Ander growled under his breath. Bechtel tore his eyes away, rising, and flung the glinting dagger away into the dark wastes. It vanished within his sight. Ander growled.

"Just go," Bechtel whispered, all vigor in his voice extinguished. With a pained slowness, he retreated to the little fire and sat once more, gazing into the weak, flickering embers.

Ander scrambled to his feet, grabbed his crown, and stared at Bechtel in disgust.

 _Pity, but not regret._

He then took a running start and dove into the bushes to search for his dagger, the night enveloping him.

~.~.~.~

He awoke to a growing cold feeling settling on his nose. The weasel, sprawled on the ground with his dagger protectively underneath him, jerked his head up and scrambled to his paws. He must have fallen asleep without realizing it.

He looked up and grimaced at the snow which trickled calmly down from the heavens, then stretched and started walking. The scent of the fire and Bechtel remained faintly in the air, but soon faded away as Ander traveled further.

He supposed he would have to find breakfast- but how? Because it was winter and Ander didn't know the terrain, searching somebeast out and resorting to robbery seemed like the best idea. He tightened the grip on the dagger he was carrying and picked up the pace. A good meal sounded... nice.

How didn't he realize he was starving before?

 _Priorities,_ Ander's mind ticked. _Fighting to survive was more important than food._

He marched onward through the snow, no longer feeling the cold. His hunger pressed on his mind deeper with every step, yet he could not withstand a smile. Freedom was his! All he had to do now was find some unsuspecting beast, murder them, and steal their food.

He stopped, scenting the air and listening for any signs of life. Up ahead, the snow gave off uneven crunches. Perhaps an explorer was headed this way, or a hopeful patron of the Crucible, unknowing of Marshank's current state? His ears swiveled to and fro. No...that wasn't it. This was not a beast like himself or Bechtel. The aroma read _quail_ , and sure enough, the bird in question dragged itself out of the bushes straight onto Ander's path, leaving a trail of speckled red dots behind it.

Ander licked his lips and poised his dagger, taking a step closer. He noticed an arrow shaft sticking out from the bird's limp, crooked wing. _What a shame,_ thought the weasel, creeping again closer. _For it, and whoever shot it and gave me this easy score._

The quail swiveled its head, noticed him, then began to run. Ander snarled and lunged at it, tumbling through the frost with the struggling bird in his arms.

The quail's right wing battered him in the face, and then stopped moving and dropped limply, as did the head of the bird. The satisfied weasel withdrew his blade from its side.

"A meal fit for a-"

Paws crunched through the snow. Ander jumped up, still grasping the dead bird.

"Hey, you! That's _my_ catch!"

"You might be the mongrel who shot it and missed," snarled Ander, jiggling the bird at the angry stoat who approached him, "Although it's anything _but_ your catch."

The stoat slowed down, and then stumbled to a complete halt. Recognition replaced the anger in his gaze, and then he turned tail and ran back as fast as he came, raising the alarm.

"Goran!"

 _Goran?_

"Get back here, scoundrel!" Ander stuck his paws in his pockets and shakily removed the half-empty vial of poison, adrenaline coursing through him. He popped the cork, doused his dagger in the green ooze, and gave mad chase to the stoat.

Unfortunately, the other creature was faster than he, and Ander came to a stop and flung the dagger in a last attempt. It landed true-square in the back of the hunter. The stoat fell to the ground and gurgled, then fell silent.

When Ander caught up to him, all he had to do was remove the blade and continue on.

"Goran?" hissed the weasel, shoving aside pine bushes. He could hear the army nearby. "It is I, Ander, your ruler." He shambled closer. "I want to see you."

There would be no waiting necessary.

Goran, bleeding from an open wound in his side, presented himself much easier than Ander had hoped. The mountain weasel and his soldiers marched straight up the valley and into view.

Goran halted as soon as he saw Ander, and threw his paw out in front of his horde to stop them. He and the weasel in the tattered blue frock coat stared at one another.

The army general was the first to tear his eyes away.

 _Just as expected._

Ander bowed cordially. His blood-soaked dagger dripped onto the grass, and he smiled at the ferret with an unpleasant air of confidence. "Greetings, Goran, and my soldiers." He nodded at the assembled beasts, and his smile spasmed. "I see the battle left some of you, most notably _you_ , Goran, rather worse for wear. Shame..."

"Silence!" commanded Goran. The vermin slammed their spears into the ground.

Ander narrowed his eyes.

"So you're the one who forged that letter. The one who murdered Vikkars. You have no more authority here, weasel. I am in charge of them once more." Goran peeled his lips back, revealing sharp teeth. "A true king would not set his beasts up to fail."

The crowd bristled, and Ander, erupted in cruel, sinister, cold laughter. It was the only sound that broke the hostile silence.

"Your head is bare." He raised his eyes and dagger at them. "A true king wears the crown of his creatures."

"A true king is not a selfish coward!" Goran hollered.

Ander looked at him and nodded boldly. "I learned a lot from Vikkars before I killed him. In fact, isn't it the laws of your clan that state whoever has the crown is ruler?" He chuckled. "For all his scheming, Vikkars did have such a loose tongue."

Goran's nostrils flared.

The vermin in the crowd raised a racket, throwing bets and comments around or scowling if they wanted the world to know they didn't care who won.

"I will destroy you," Goran declared, whipping out his blade.

Ander held out a paw and beckoned to the mountain weasel. Goran descended upon the weasel with a leap and a jab, and the clang of both weapons sent a metallic vibrato through the air. Ander pushed against the stronger creature and pulled to the side, sending Goran stumbling forward.

The weasel danced around him and scored a cut on his tail.

"Graaah!" In a surge of anger, Goran spun and struck him in the jaw with the butt of his sword. Ander hit the ground, the bloodstained metal crown flying from his head.

Ander saw clouds for a moment. Goran sauntered up to him, menacing, and lifted his sword to deal the killing blow. The weasel scrambled out of the way, and Goran's blade found the ground at the last second.

Ander stuck his dagger in the older weasel's side just as Goran got his sword free. He roared as Ander yanked it out and darted to the side, surprised his challenger still had energy. There was a reason Vikkars chose him as deputy.

Goran swung his blade, grazing Ander across the chest and forcing a yelp from him. He nearly fell again.

Goran moved closer, then stumbled and collapsed. Ander's ears perked. The general panted on the ground, sweating profusely.

"Fight me, Goran," he enticed, moving closer. "Get back up and kill the coward. Claim your right as king."

Goran held up a paw as if asking for silence. His sides heaved, and he went limp in the snow, his eyes glazing over. Whether Ander came out on top by poison or blood loss or just sheer luck, he would never know.

He turned back to face his stunned army and lifted the crown, putting it back on his head.

"I, Ander, have slain Vikkars and Goran both." The weasel panted, eyeing the vermin coolly. "Would anybeast here like to try their paw at becoming king? No? Nobeast?"

All Ander got in response were awkward coughs and shuffles. Some of the less experienced vermin, in fact, stared at him as if he were some sort of sorcerer. He sheathed his dagger, laughing coldly.

"Splendid. Now bow."

The masses dipped their heads, and Ander marched them off, away into the distance and with the power to bring terror to any creature that dared cross his path. Perhaps he would stop for his bird.


	45. The Battle

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **The Battle**

 _A Collaboration, Feat. Bechtel and Laurence_

* * *

 _Whip,_

 _-You've done well by regaining our footing in Marshank Settlement. Tell your forces to pull back from the fountain and flank the enemy from Alder's Reach._

 _Stay vigilant, the enemy has grown weak and the war is almost over,_

 _Cain Seftis. Lord of the Crucible and Overseer of the Arena_

~.~.~.~

 _Wander-_

 _I must insist that you stay indoors, for your own safety._

 _Word has reached to me that Cain and the rest were attacked by surviving forces of that rapscallion ferret's army- that same one who was a Crucible fighter._

 _Fortunately for Marshank, rumor has it that the former bluejacket Captain sacrificed himself to save Cain Seftis. He gave our dear leader plenty of time to seek shelter while they hacked the rat into pieces. Is that true?_

 _I'm glad that, even despite the unexpected ambush, rumors say Cain still saw to it that his traitorous brother Hale Seftis hanged from the neck until dead. Died with that stupid half-smile on his lips, the wildcat did. Makes my blood boil, just thinking about it!_

 _Your life, and mine- we are infinitely valuable to Marshank, since we are the last of the Crucible aristocrats. All the others were killed or fled the northlands._

 _We'll see to it that the Crucible thrives once again. It survived a plague, and now a war._

 _Stay safe and don't remove yourself from that protection I hired. He will guard you with his life._

 _-Gervaise_

~.~.~.~

 _Iwan,_

 _-Surely by now you've heard the news of what happened to Whip and Hale. They told me of their best-laid plans to "better" the Crucible, as if it needed fixing. A blasphemy, more like._

 _Without hesitation I did what any good leader would do- I placed them both in chains._

 _Hale, for plotting a conspiracy to overthrow me, and Whip because he showed himself again despite his exile from the Crucible halls._

 _They will meet with the standard Crucible justice for high treason: the gallows._

 _Starting immediately, you are henceforth the Crucible Captain of Bluejackets. Leave your forces and come back to the Crucible for your inauguration._

 _I know you will not let me down,_

 _Cain Seftis. Lord of the Crucible and Overseer of the Arena_

~.~.~.~

 _Bechtel._

 _I made it out._

 _It took several hard seasons, but I finally got out from the Crucible. I'm writing this letter in the hopes that it will reach you._

 _Hours after our last encounter I was recaptured while freeing the remainder of the servants and slaves from the Drag. Don't worry, just about all of the prisoners made it out. So few of prisoners remained after the war that they had volunteers-only matches for the next two seasons._

 _Much has changed since the Crucible Wars. That fox, the one all covered in tattoos, he became the new Bluejacket Captain after what happened to Wimmick and Whip. And the Rendais, they were your friends, aye? They seemed to have vanished completely._

 _About four seasons after the war, I became Crucible Champion for a period of time. And with that I gained privileges- such as the ability to come and go where I please. So sometime later, me and a couple others found an underground catacombs beneath the Drag. We've been sending the weakest and youngest creatures down there to save them from the arena._

 _After winning my last tournament, Cain gave me release from Marshank. Told me I could go back to wherever I came from._

 _So where do I go from here?_

 _Maybe I'll start a covert rebellion and overthrow Cain. Or perhaps find myself a mate and settle down somewhere- live a simple life. I could go back home to the Southlands and continue to take care of the farm my family started._

 _Time is my own mortal enemy._

 _So much time crawled by, while I bled inside those frostbitten dungeons. There was so much more I could have done or seen if not for Cain, or Hale, or anybeast who ends up ruling the Crucible for that matter._

 _And even though I'm free now, I still haven't decided on what I'm going to do with myself. So until then, I'll be having a pint or two in the Seascar while reflecting on old times with you and Laurence._

 _Your friend,_

 _Tope Benwrath._

 _P.S., have you heard from Laurence? I don't know what happened to him after we parted ways in Marshank village. I hope he made it out. Let me know if you've heard anything about him. I fear the worst for him._

 **[End of Round Seven]**


	46. Handful of Rain

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Handful of Rain**

 _By: Laurence Copeland (Epilogue)_

* * *

"Clink."

Tipping the glass back, the contents of the hot liquid burned the otter's throat. Once empty, Laurence casually placed the glass against the bar table, and tried raising his voice over the raucous sailor crew singing shanties.

"...And that's the story about how I escaped from a burning building full of angry thugs in Sampetra."

The bartender gave a hearty laugh and pounded the table. "Hahahar! That's a right good ol' tale there, lad! How many times you been telling that one?"

Laurence gave a shrug, and gladly accepted the refilled cup. "Well, everybeast loves a great tale about a close call, am I right?"

"Hahahar! Right as rain! You said you've been here through Hastings before, aye?"

"That's right. Might end up being the last time, too." The otter turned to look back at the sound of raised voices behind him. "I'm heading back home for the first time in three long years."

"I think I remember seein' you in here last fall. What's yer name, lad?"

"The name's Laurence, and you?" Laurence turned his head back around. The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

 _What happened to the bartender?_ Turning his head back, he cursed at the sight of the owner busily breaking up a fight between two drunk shrews. _Of course he is._

The former mercenary eyed the chaos around him- several creatures engaged in pointless arguments or altercations; others engaged in suspect behavior that the otter tried his best to completely ignore.

 _I've probably surpassed my limit anyways._ He clutched his face with both paws and sighed deeply. _This place is much more crowded than last time._

"An' another six on the gimpy one," said a peculiar voice from behind, causing Laurence's head to shoot up. He scanned the entire room for his friend Grahan, but he was nowhere to be seen.

 _He's dead. I watched him die in Westward... I must be imagining things again._

Laurence fiddled with the glass in front of him as he considered his next course of action. _For now I'll head back to my room, and then tomorrow morning I can take to the road and leave for Mossflower again. And from there, back to that port city in the south east._

 _Getting back home will take at least one year, so long as I don't stay anywhere longer than five days. The Copeland family will be whole again soon._

Right as he stood up from his stool, the otter caught sight of unsavory-looking vermin types walking through the bar's entrance.

His eyes locked onto one of them in particular, one wearing a tattered blue coat.

Burying his head into the empty cup while they crossed by, Laurence cursed his lack of common sense. _Stupid, stupid! I should have expected creatures from the Crucible here._ He glanced over his shoulder to watch them sit down in the far corner of the room. _I'll wait for a moment, then head straight to my room. No sense in staying down here and getting seen by them._

While he waited patiently for the group of newcomers to become distracted, thoughts of Marshank tethered to his conscience. _I should not have abandoned my friends. They could have used my help in the coming battle..._

 _And which friends would those be? All of them were dead like Ansley, or doing completely fine without my help like Bechtel._

He shook away the malignant thoughts and dearly wished he had another drink in his claws.

 _Doesn't matter anyways. It's been three weeks. The decision has been made._

A beautiful otter maiden entered the tavern with all the sensibility and caution in the world. She wore a laced up, gothic dress and sported a tattered cloak, far too ill-fitted to match with the rest of her noble attire. But her most sensational feature was her eyes: strikingly blue.

She looked so astonishingly beautiful that Laurence figured she would have been better suited to be in a painting than in a shoddy tavern like the one they occupied.

Approaching the bar, she placed her claws against the lip and craned her neck to look over the counter.

"Bartender's over there, if that's what you're wondering."

The maiden jumped at the sudden statement. She turned to face Laurence.

"Th-thanks. Could really use a drink right now…"

He gave a smile and raised his empty glass. "Get a Firefleck. That's a good one."

"Sure, okay…"

Laurence watched as she went to approach the bartender, but froze at the sight of the vermin he was talking to. She turned slowly and made her way back the way she came.

"Everything alright?" asked Laurence as she passed by. She mumbled something he couldn't quite hear and headed up the arch steps and into the hallway of suite rooms above.

 _That was strange... did she recognize one of those Marshank folk?_

He decided that perhaps it was a sign that he should be leaving the tavern also. He left a generous tip and headed up to his own room.

~.~.~.~

Hours later, Laurence came awake from his heavy slumber. Slowly he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and got out from the bed.

 _Today's the day. The first day of the rest of my life._

 _I wonder what everybeast will be thinking when they see me on the horizon…_

While he placed all the mementos he could carry in his backpack, he eyed the icicle sword on the nightstand.

"I wonder what they'll think of you, when they see you for the first time." Laurence gave a smirk, and nodded. "You're the new family sword. A lot of responsibility comes with that."

Finally finished with gathering all his belongings, he closed the suite door behind him and headed back down the stairs to the tavern. The otter gave a goodbye wave to the lethargic bartender across the counter and pushed out the doors.

Laurence was greeted with warm sunlight and a vibrant landscape. Blooming daffodils and orchids peppered the hillsides, while a single fir tree towered over the tiny settlement. It consisted of only three family homes, a courier's office and the Hastings Hall tavern.

 _Times like this... you couldn't ask for anything better. I'm glad to be alive in this moment, to be able to feel this._

Laurence mentally gave his goodbyes to the small settlement and began heading down toward the fabled Mossflower Woods.

The wind tickled his ears as he turned to face south, toward the vast stretch of woods laying before him. If he looked hard enough the otter could make out a winding river on the horizon.

He craned his neck back to look at Sondern. "You and me have been through a lot, friend. But we're almost home. Just hang tight for a bit longer."

For about an hour he continued on his journey on the small dirt road, making good time and not stopping for anything. Laurence even managed to cross the rapid river where it grew narrow enough to safely cross.

And then the sounds of a great commotion accosted his ears.

Somebeast was screaming something fierce, almost crying, while other voices tried to yell over the ruckus.

Crossing another hill, he could see several vermin surrounding another creature waving a dagger threateningly. Going prone against the ground, the former mercenary crawled along the ground until he could hear what the creatures were saying.

"C'mon, we ain't ones to harm no liddle lass fer no reason. We jus' want yer valuables- all the money ye got yer, an' that nice liddle blade o' yers, too!"

"An' maybe if ye don't have anything o' value to us, we'll go ahead and make ye work in our fields fer us!"

Laurence contemplated on attacking the vermin outright, but he instead decided that maybe there was a chance they might listen to reason. He slowly raised himself up and drew Sondern from his back.

"That's not very honorable of you lot, stealing from somebeast who can't defend themselves." He narrowed his eyes and sized them all up. "How about ye try and steal from me? Maybe then it will be a fair fight..."

The ringleader, a pot-bellied weasel, stepped forward. "This ain't none o' yore business, otter. Step away an' keep movin', then mebbe we won't end up stealin' from ye!"

One of his comrades stepped between them. "Hold off a moment, Mudfly. Lookit the sword the riverdog's carryin' on him- he's that fighter from up north, th' Frostfang!"

"You think I'm supposed t' be scared o' one daft otter? There's only one o' him, an' seven o' us." The weasel turned back to the newcomer. He unsheathed a rusty dagger and spat on the ground. "Last chance to scarper, lad. Move it."

Laurence stepped forward, and all the vermin drew their weapons.

He parried an incoming swing from an antsy stoat, and used the force of the block to shove the enemy stumbling backward. They collided with their closest friend and the two sprawled out on the bottom of the hill.

The next one approached with a bit more caution, but with just as much inexperience. Laurence gave a smile and blocked the telegraphed uppercut swing with ease.

With no hesitation he impaled the rat when it left the abdomen wide open and ready to be exploited.

Laurence's next closest enemy, a scarred and burly weasel, closed the gap with caution as the Frostfang kicked away the dying rat from the end of his sword.

 _Now this one, he's definitely a fighter._ Laurence gave a smile and felt his heart rate rise while matching the weasel's swings. _This is the one who recognized me, too. Perhaps he was also a fighter at the Crucible. Small world!_

While he tried figuring a way to break through the scarred weasel's defenses, a fox tried to approach him to the left.

Laurence saw a few moments too late and tried to avoid the dagger as best he could; the blade dug into his forearm and he yelped.

Predicting that the scarred weasel would jab at that moment, the otter purposely fell to his knees and the fox beside him took the blow. While the weasel looked stunned at the sight of maiming his mate, Laurence carved a line across his chest and the opponent collapsed in a heap on the ground.

He turned to face the others only to see the ringleader weasel choking on a fountain of blood on the ground. The otter maiden pointed her bloodied knife at the other three vermin. With their leader dying, the remnants scattered.

Laurence turned to the maiden and gave her a slow nod. "You alright?"

She held herself tightly as though the rain might wash her away. She nodded.

He faced away from her and moved towards the nearby river. The otter could feel the start of a light drizzle of rain against his face as he began the process of cleaning his blade. He graciously smiled up at the gray skies.

"You defeated all seven of them."

The otter didn't turn back to face the maiden. Instead he continued to wash the blade. "But I only killed three."

"Quit being modest, you defeated seven. They ran away or were killed. You can hold your own well in a fight."

"Yes, I can."

"So you aren't very modest after all."

The former mercenary gave a chuckle and sheathed the sword through the leather straps along his back. "There is a difference between modesty and honesty. I consider myself to be honest."

"I need your help with… something of importance."

Laurence turned to face the speaker. He was in the process of responding when he recognized the damsel in distress. It was the beautiful otter from last night.

She still wore the same dress from the last encounter. But the edges of her attire were frayed, her face worn and dirty. His eyes landed on the bloodied knife she absent-mindedly gripped in her claws. She held herself tightly as though the rain might wash her away.

"You…"

"There will be incentives. If you can help me. Land, money, titles, whatever you'd like."

"And- and what would that be?"

The maiden eyed the carnage around them, as though she feared the corpses would jump back to life at any moment. "My... father was... taken captive. By a vermin band. They didn't appreciate his refusal to pay taxes in return for their 'protection.' Aye, that's it."

Laurence rose to his footpaws and dusted himself off. "What's your name, lass?"

"The time for questions will be later. We must hurry now." She sheathed the weapon without cleansing it and fixed her piercing gaze on him. "Are you coming or not?"

A million questions and choices came to the former mercenary's mind.

 _But what about Helmsford? What about our home? The family won't be around forever..._

A metaphorical fork in the road laid before Laurence. His responsibilities laid before him in one direction. Years of servitude for his family, country, and king. His claim to the Copeland Estates. The title and highest achievable rank in the Eastborne Army. All of it within his grasp. And in the other... his free will and independence, manifested in the form of a beautiful maiden with strikingly blue eyes and with the promise of a reward should he-

Laurence gave an exaggerated bow. "I swear to you, my lady, that I will see your father returned home safely! Which way did they go?"

The maiden pointed behind her. "West of here. There is an underground cave system they use as their hideout. If you come with me, I can show you. ...Frostfang."

His smile receded.

With the sound of heavy rainfall giving weight to nature's chorus, he followed her down the hillside and toward the southeast- away from the western coast.


	47. Petrichor

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Petrichor**

 _By: Bechtel (Epilogue)_

* * *

A hearty wink to ease and a practiced smile for assurance.

"Gurr-ann-teed, yes-zurr-ee! Best thing fer lice an' ticks an' all those mealybuggers. Doan't believe me? Just lookit me own fur! Shiny as that likkle one's bottom, burr-aye!"

A smirk from the young lad and a titter from the young lass, the pink newborn rocking in her arms with a lighter motion. Nearly there, but still no coinpurse in sight.

"Bain't no price fer peace o' moind an' a good night's rest." A sagely nod of the head, then a pause. A rap of his digging claws on the costly jar in question. "…course, me own pups be long gone outta me 'ouse. Can't imagine livin' with all those bitey-folk an' worryin' about me likkle one, too!" A shudder for emphasis.

An exchanged look between the couple. Pleading in her eyes, hope in his. Then his paw moved, and the bargain was struck.

"Well, you've convinced us," the otterlad said, his shoulders relaxing as the string came loose from the purse. "Was hopin' to ride it out, but you're right. Gotta think about more than my own hide, now, no matter what it costs."

Gurry no longer heard the beast, attention fixed only on the glittering ichor of commerce streaming out onto his table. He handed over the jar with a string of rehearsed appreciations, then swept the coins into the bucket beneath his desk. The otters left with confidence, and Gurry sunk deeper onto his stool.

The trick to sales was knowing one's customer. The port town of Daskim made this absurdly easy, as half the beasts passing through the cobblestone streets were travelers, the best sort of customer—ignorant, distracted, and unable return and complain about faulty products. The other half in Daskim knew to avoid the mole's stand of overpriced baubles, but they kept wise with their muzzles shut, as his coin helped keep each of their own businesses afloat.

Gurry glanced across the market plaza to Greenrum's Tavern. Licking his lips, he decided tonight was fit to pay a large tithe to gods of ferment and froth.

He bent down to retrieve a pawful of his morning take when a sudden pain struck him. Gurry hissed, catching himself against his counter and jamming his palms against his temples. The familiar pain spread like fire, rippling down his scalp to his neck. He held his breath to halt the building tension, paw fumbling for the small box at the back of his market stand. Flicking the lid open, he grasped several cuttings of peppermint and lavender.

"…Gurry?"

He barely heard the voice through the pulsing throb in his ears. Gritting his teeth, he barked out, "Oi'll be with ye in a moment!"

He stripped the cuttings of their leaves, stuffed them in his mouth, and washed the dried herbs down with a nearby cup of soured ale. The sweet of the floral, mixed with the stale earthiness of the ale, made the mole lurch forward and gag, but the oppressive pounding in his skull lessened.

With his vision no longer swimming, Gurry rubbed at his cheeks and eyes to freshen his appearance and swiveled to face his customer.

"Sorry 'bout that. What can Oi help ye wi—"

The beast in front of him ran ragged with the marks of travel, from the weather-rotted shawl to the splotches of dark flesh where fur no longer grew. He'd seen such wearied journeybeasts before, yet this was no mere traveler. Gurry knew this creature, and the creature knew him.

The throbbing returned, but with the cold distance of a horrifying memory. At once, Gurry felt phantom claws seizing his arms. His head, striking stone over and over again until he heard a crack and felt blood. Pain, dizziness, waking up in the physician's hut with nothing but a prognosis for life.

The memories swept away, but Gurry found he could not move. A scream and a roar battled for life within his chest, but neither found their way up his throat. He simply stared at the leathery-winged beast, his beady eyes widened as if waking from a nightmare.

"I… I was glad to hear that you were still, um…" The bat flinched, hugging one wing as if to shield himself. With the trepidation of a dibbun, he began again in a crackled voice, "I'm sorry, Gurry. I'm so sorry for what I did, and I know it won't fix what happened, but—"

"Get oawt." Gurrys voice issued with a tremble that not even his years of swindling could mask.

The bat reached a claw and touched the edge of Gurry's countertop. "Gurry, I want to make this right. Please, just hear me—"

"Get oawt!" he roared, smashing a fist onto the countertop. "Oi doan't care what ye got ter say t' me! Get yurr Gates-stained fur outta moi soight! Oi never want ter see—ah!"

Gurry clutched at his head, claws working their way to the tender spot at the back of his skull, the pain as fresh now as the day he had received it.

He felt something on his shoulder, and squinted an eye open enough to see the bat reaching out to him. Sucking in a breath, the mole smacked the claw back. " _Oawt!_ "

The bat staggered backwards. Murmurs from the travelers and residents of Daskim alike bubbled to life within the market. Recognition filled the tone and expression of several beasts in the courtyard.

"That's Teaky's bat, isn't it?" one muttered.

"Same one that disappeared seasons ago," another added.

"Should someone fetch the constable?" a third asked.

The bat made a clicking noise, ears flicking about. He glanced at the gathering crowd behind them, then stepped back from Gurry's stand, wings held up in front of him.

"If you want me to leave, then I will. I'll never bother you again. I just wanted to—"

" _Go,_ " the word bubbled out from Gurry's throat as a primal growl. He gripped at his head, praying for the pressure to fade away.

When he finally looked up, the bat was gone.

~.~.~.~

He expected this. The recognition of the crowd, Gurry's hatred boiling forth, the shame that clung thicker than the marshweed cloak around his shoulders—he expected it all. Since stowing away into the gullet of a merchant vessel departing from Marshank, each night of sleep he grasped had been plagued with premonition, and each of his fears had come true.

Bechtel clicked his tongue and waited for the sounds to take shape. Piece by piece, the brickwork walls, cobblestone streets, and milling beasts of Port Daskim appeared in his mind. For a final time, he let the image linger.

He never expected reconciliation with Gurry – that much was a fool's errand – but the hope for resolution was what gave his faltering will strength even when his legs trembled beneath him. Now, no hope remained. His sins in Daskim laid bare before him, like a cancer without a cure.

As the echoes silenced and Daskim faded from his sight, a single image remained in his mind: rage and pain twisting Gurry's face, bringing the mole low by his mere presence. His return to the port city had brought no resolution—only greater pain.

With heavy steps and an aching heart, Bechtel turned and set down the dirt-partitioned road. By habit, he felt for the rough wicker satchel by his side, and the wooden baubles and bundled spices within. The gifts of the marsh foxes of the North ran thin. The southern lands free of coin and commerce waited, and in them, the places of his past, demanding recompense and answer for his lying tongue, his thieving claws, and his bitter heart.

" _Why seek your sorrow, child?"_

The crackle of Mother Masha's voice came to mind, breaking forth from the cloud of musk and smoke that clung to her mold-bitten robes.

" _You scout well. Could have a future here."_

He recalled the hunched form of the vixen matriarch, her slivered eyes peeking out underneath the heavy folds of her brows.

" _You cannot mend wounds already scabbed by time."_

Bechtel produced one of the wooden trinkets from the wiry satchel—a statue shaped by broad cuts. Unlike the others in his satchel, it was unstained by age or dirt. He ran a claw along its edge, feeling of the carved wings on either side of the little icon.

"I have to answer for it, Masha," he breathed aloud. "For as much of it as I can. Maybe then… I'll find some peace. If not for me, for them."

He inhaled deep of the springtime warmth, savoring the faint, fragile ember of courage that blossomed at the familiar words. He could not commit his thoughts too far into the future, but that ember would see him to his next stop.

Setting the little figurine back in his satchel, Bechtel straightened the collar of his cloak over the metal clasped around his neck, then set down upon the trail.

~.~.~.~

No trail remained.

The dead and dying leaves of fall lay scattered about the arboreal expanse, long ago suffocating the dirt pathway that had led him under the weaving branches and towering canopies.

Yet he did not stop. Memory and instinct guided him through the chaos of fallen nature. The forest filled his senses with such familiarity that he felt as if he had been gone for merely a day. He listened to the buzzing of the insects making their final preparations for the looming winter, and caught the distant scramble of squirrels making their morning run. Every breath mixed the sweet of wildflowers in bloom with the musty warmth of sun-touched bark.

Mossflower Wood, in all its glory and awe, never terrified him more.

Every tree loomed as an accuser, their branches a cage ready to descend at moment's misstep. The crunch of the leaves beneath his heels served as testimony, declaring for all the wood to hear of his misdeeds.

And still he walked on despite the ache in his legs and the tremble in his wings. The journey home had taken him all across the southern mainland, from the former-Juska highlands to the coasts of Salamandastron. He found every beast he had wronged and put himself at their mercy for repaying his debt. Some accepted only an apology as toll for their forgiveness, others demanded compensation in the form of labor. Whatever their request, he accepted, but eventually he would return to the road once more. The woodland home of his childhood never fell far from his thoughts, nor did the first and greatest sin that stained his soul. And now, the day had come to account for it.

Bechtel stepped around a massive tree split into two trunks at the base, then over an ancient log buoyed up from the sea of leaves surrounding it. An eerie sensation brushed past him, and his breaths grew deep and labored. He'd taken this path once, an iron poker clutched in his grip. He felt its weight once more, and quickly sent off a series of clicks to plant his mind once more into the present.

Bechtel froze. No poker lay in his grip, but before him stood the lord of the forest, a giant sequoia tree that towered above even the canopy-reaches of the surrounding trees. Its ancient, gnarled bark lay plastered like brick against its surface, while knotholes numbering the dozens spotted its crackled surface. Webs of rope spun between the branches above, so thick that they could be mistaken as tarp or cloth. Homes of all shapes and sizes lay suspended in the webbing, though not a one wavered or tilted off-center.

The sprawling home of the venerated Gerthwin squirrels stood as a testament to their masterwork of forestry, reminding all under its shadow who ruled the forest-the Gerthwin's orders were the forest's orders. In the very center of the tree lay the crown jewel, a spiraling building that rose above even the canopy. Though he entered only once, he remembered every aspect of the inside, from the mottled stretches of carpet, to the cabinets full of clay and wood trophies, to the musty smell of anticipation. He remembered stumbling upon the first beast within the halls—the Gerthwin elder asleep in a rocking chair, surrounded by shelves declaring his life's achievements.

He remembered the rage. It boiled now at the edge of his awareness, revived by a past still clinging to him. He recalled the letters piled on Atrus' desk-notices of impending allotment of their cottage to other woodland beasts more deserving of it. He recalled the light slowly vanishing from the elder mouse following failed appeals, sleepless nights, and growing sickness. And then it all came to an end.

The scabless wound of his father's death bled fresh within him, and once more he was just a fatherless bat demanding blood and justice from whoever could pay. He remembered the tears, the screams, the blood.

Bechtel snarled, whipping the thoughts and sensations from his mind. His gaze fell to his wings, and to the jagged scars that disfigured the membrane. Though the gashes and tears mended seasons ago, his wings would never heal. Forever, they would serve as a reminder of his folly—every pain and ache an echo of his actions.

As the doubts and fear percolated within him, Bechtel took a firm step forward then launched himself into the air. He landed upon the bottom spiral of the center building, then approached the door. Through gritted teeth, he knocked.

An agonizing second passed. A second. A third.

His ears flicked at the patter of approaching feet.

"I'll be right there!" called a distinctly feminine voice.

A hundred thoughts spun through Bechtel's head, every rehearsed speech broken by the swell of emotion within him. Steadying his feet, he drew in deliberate breaths to stop the world from spinning.

The crack of a doorknob snapped the breath from his lungs. The choked whisper parted the darkness of his vision enough to reveal a squirrelmaid hefting a young dibbun in the crook of her arm. Her tired eyes met him, and instantly widened.

"Oh!" She pulled back behind the door, hugging her child closer to her chest. Under her breath, she whispered, "Shade above, what are you?"

"I realize this might be sudden, but…" He stopped. He looked at the innocent-eyed dibbun staring back at him, then regarded the fear slowly growing on the mother's face.

Taking a careful step back, he pulled the collar of his fraying cloak down to reveal the band of metal around his neck. "Truth is, I'm a miserable beast, ma'am, worthy of these chains and more. I've been a liar and a thief to dozens of beasts in my time. I did whatever I could to make it to the next day, but when I finally got there, I found it wasn't worth it. I can't bear the guilt—can't stand another day living like this."

The intensity of her expression softened, though she continued to hide halfway behind the door. "I… I don't understand."

Bechtel tried to speak, but nothing came out. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced the words out, "Years ago, I flew into this very house and killed a beast in cold blood. I'm here to account for my crime, and to seek the justice that's due to me, whatever it may be."

"Grandfather…" she whispered, eyes widening. "You… You're the one who—"

At once, the fear returned tenfold. The maiden slammed the door shut, her piercing cry for help breaking across the surrounding treetops.

Bechtel made to sit down, wincing against the tightness of his wings and the ache in his legs. Settling against the rail at the edge of the porch, he shut his eyes and waited.

~.~.~.~

"You. Get up."

The familiar banging of a knuckle against wood pulled the haze from Bechtel's mind. He blinked his bleary eyes and looked to the barred window at the side of his cell. When no light struck his eyes and bid his aching muscles to rise, Bechtel frowned.

 _Far too early for the morning meal,_ he thought to himself, unfurling his wings and rolling himself up from the straw-cushioned plank serving as his bed.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, voice craggy and dry as he scrubbed the crust from his eyes.

He waited as the sound spread through the cell, searching for anything out of the ordinary. It spoke of the same wooden walls and gate that sealed him to his punishment. An ottermaid donned in thin layers of patrol armor stood behind the gate, one paw clasping a spear while the other held up a lantern.

"Yula?" Bechtel asked, squinting against the shimmering light. "I thought Hastley had the shift today. What time is it, anyway?"

"Too early to be dealing with the likes of ye, which is why I've got the honor." Yula snorted to suppress a yawn, then stamped the butt of her spear down. "Freshen yerself up. Ye've got a guest."

Bechtel froze in the middle of stretching out a knot from his neck. " 'Guest?' What do you mean?"

"Meant what I said," she said, hooking the half-exhausted lantern onto a nearby catch. "Not sure why, but he insisted on seein' ye. If ye'd ever met 'em, ye'd know how hard it is to say 'no' to a Redwaller."

At that, Bechtel stood up from his bed, the last fog of sleep pulling from his mind. " _What?_ " A dozen questions crashed through his mind, but all he managed was to stammer out, "Who? Why?"

Yula studied him and nodded. "Better. Be on yer best behavior, or I'll take it out on yer meals."

She turned and disappeared down the hallway before he could say anything else. He sought an answer in the confusion, but none came before he heard the steady approach of footfalls—not the metallic clatter of the guards, but the patter of a bare-pawed beast.

Bechtel did not speak, watching only through the blur of his mottled vision. The shadows shifted and parted, swirling around an approaching form as it entered into the light of the dying lantern. Only then did Bechtel risk a sound to see.

A dormouse, as thoroughly unimposing and unimpressive as ever a beast managed, stood before him. A travel bag strapped across his shoulder highlighted the skeletal frame hidden beneath a too-large habit. Despite the frailty of the beast, he held himself in the comfortably-firm posture of a teacher, one wiry brow raised as he evaluated the bat before him.

"I would apologize for interrupting your sleep, but I imagine you get quite a lot of that here," the dormouse said, a smile half-hidden beneath the bristle-like fur draping down to his chin.

Bechtel blinked several times, then grasped the bars of his cage and leaned to look for Yula's stalwart form.

"Oh, I asked to speak with you alone," the dormouse said with a wave of his paw, shuffling over to a small stool. "Though she made me promise to report any untoward behavior on your part. Said something about feeding you overripe fruit as punishment." He looked over his shoulder. "But something tells me that threat doesn't frighten you, does it?"

"I… I'm sorry, who _are_ you?" Bechtel stammered.

"Brother Hedwyn of Redwall Abbey!" the dormouse said, hefting up the stool and toddling his way back to the cell. "Gatekeeper and Historian! Former tussleball champion for seven springs! Inventor of the cream-packed pie crust!" He set the stool down and jumped atop. "But you can call me an old frump with too much curiosity."

Bechtel stepped back and sat upon the edge of his bed, observing the dormouse with careful intent. "I still don't understand."

Hedwyn shrugged. "You shouldn't. Who I am doesn't matter, in this case." He reached into his bag and withdrew a thin tome and an eelskin pouch, which he deftly unfolded and began sorting through various writing utensils. "You're the talk of Mossflower, my boy. Strange enough for a bat to cross into these parts, but for that same beast to confess to an unsolved murder from years ago? Why, the gossip can't be helped."

"I didn't realize beasts would care so much," Bechtel muttered.

"Care?" Hedwyn chuckled. "You've presented these beasts with the rare opportunity to puff out their chests and feel very proud of themselves. 'At least I'm not like that bat!' they say."

"Well… they're right. I'm not innocent."

"Undoubtedly. But at least you admit it." He pulled an inkwell free, gave it a quick shake, and held it up against the light of the lantern. Nodding, he set the ink down and procured a quill. "Did you know Mossflower doesn't have a proper prison? This?" He whisked the quill in a circle above his head. "Slapdash and hodgepodge. Though that collar… high quality metal, and fairly excessive means for these beasts."

Bechtel touched the cold band around his neck. "They didn't give me this. I've… had it for a while."

"Sounds like you have quite the story to tell."

Bechtel scoffed, tugging his frayed shirt as high up as he could to hide the collar. "Look, if you came here to gloat or spit in my face, get on with it."

Hedwyn chuckled. "These old lungs couldn't quite get it to you even if I wanted. No, I'm far more curious about the beast behind the collar." He tapped the feathered end of the quill against his chin. "You see, despite all their bluster, no one is really sure what to make of you. You're not a vermin, but you're also not a woodlander. You have blood on your paws, but you've returned to confess to that. It's left the Wood with quite the paradox. You'd be surprised how many arguments you've provoked—farmhands and philosophers alike debating what constitutes the nature of a beast."

"They're wasting their time, then. It's not that complicated—I'm not a good beast, and that's that."

Hedwyn grunted, tapping his fingers together. "You know, we've had some interesting travelers come through Redwall recently, telling stories of a bat coming to their village and confessing old sins. Seems this is a habit for you."

"Why do you care?" Bechtel snapped. "Is this just for you to solve your philosophical question?"

The smile faded, and Hedwyn's expression grew sober. "No. You're not a problem to be solved, Bechtel."

Bechtel stood up straighter, ears flicking. "What? How did you—"

"I came here because I know something none of the others do. Not even those who you hurt." Hedwyn leaned forward. "I knew your father."

A silence fell between the pair. The dormouse's demeanor remained unchanged, yet he seemed altogether a different beast to Bechtel. Curiosity welled within him, but a steady fear rose within him as he met the Redwaller's gaze. He felt as if he stood exposed, as if those eyes saw more than any other beast before, yet he could not turn away.

"How… how did you know him?"

"I studied under him when I was younger. As fastidious and impossible to please as a teacher ever was, but in all these years, I've never once forgotten Methuselah's Fifty Precepts!" He drew in a breath, brow furrowing. "The other Brothers and Sisters of the Abbey didn't care for Atrus. He asked too many questions. Refused to settle for the comfort that the walls provided. His disdain for the ignorance that came from Redwall's affluence continually brought a wedge between him and the Abbot, until it could no longer abide."

"He… never spoke much about his time in Redwall," Bechtel said, recalling the few tense conversations he'd had with his father. They never lasted long, and he never walked away learning anything more about his father's tenure as a Brother.

"Atrus wasn't the type to talk behind the tails of other beasts. I may not agree with everything your father held to, but I know this for certain: Atrus was a good beast. Controversial, to be certain, but a good beast."

Bechtel pushed himself up from the bed, taking several uneven steps towards the bars of his cell. "Did you know him well?"

Hedwyn nodded. "Well enough that we stayed in contact after he left, at least for a time. As we focused more on our own pursuits, the letters grew more and more infrequent, until I simply stopped hearing from him. And then one day, years later, a passing hare courier drops a note on my desk. It's Atrus saying he's found an infant bat, he needs books from the Abbey Infirmary on bat physiology, and to not say a word to any of the other Brothers or Sisters."

"But why? The Redwallers could have helped him."

"You're familiar with the story of Veil, yes?"

"Of course."

"If the Abbot had learned a discharged Brother was harboring an orphaned infant – and one of unconventional origin, at that – he would have decreed that it would be in your best interest to be brought to Redwall. Perhaps he would have been right, but Atrus feared that history would repeat. He didn't want that life for you."

Tears swelled hot in his eyes, forcing Bechtel back from the bars. He drew in a shuddering breath as he sat once more against his bed. "But it didn't matter. I turned out just as bad in the end." He pressed his wingtips to his face. "Atrus would be ashamed of me. I know it, and that's what hurts the most!"

"Atrus loved you, Bechtel. I only ever received two more letters from him, and you're all he talked about."

"But I'm not that beast anymore. Look at me!" He spread out his wings to highlight the scars marring the membrane. "Would he be proud of this? Of what I've done to so many other beasts?"

"No, I don't think he would."

Bechtel winced, coiling inwards as if struck from a blow. Hearing the confirmation from another somehow made all his innermost fears real.

"I also don't think he would give up on you."

"What's the use?" Bechtel sobbed. "I tried to fix it. I tried so hard, but it hasn't helped anything. I've only made things worse!" He grinded the flat of his claws against his temples. "And when I finally am dealt justice, it's too _easy._ I deserve worse, and more, but there's no end in sight! You said it yourself—I'm a paradox that doesn't make sense, and I can't find the answer!"

Through the rocking of his body and the pressure mounting in his head, he heard his echoes speak of Hedwyn standing up from his stool. The dormouse approached the bars and set a paw on them.

"You're wrong, Bechtel. Because behind your paradox, behind all your mistakes, behind all the scars – at the root of it all – you're the son of Atrus. And no son of his should be abandoned."

Bechtel gazed at Hedwyn, his eyes rendered useless through the tears. "I don't deserve that."

"It's not about deserving it. It's about accepting it."

Bechtel shook his head. "I… don't know how to do that."

"Then let me teach you." Placing the quill and inkwell atop the tome, he slid all three through a wide slot at the foot of the gate. "You know, in the last letter he sent, Atrus told me how very much you wanted to become a Recorder one day, and write the stories of beasts with grand tales to tell. How about to start, we begin with yours?"

Bechtel stared at the tome and instruments. He reached a claw out, hovering close with the slowness of one afraid to wake a creature. Then he stopped and quickly pulled his wing back. "I-I can't. I don't know how to write. My… my eyes, they don't—" He wrapped one wing tightly around himself. "I barely know how to scrawl letters in sand, much less holding a pen, or how much ink to use, or—"

"And you'll find that book has many, many pages to be spared for a beginner's practice." Hedwyn smiled. "And I don't think you'll be doing anything else with your time."

Bechtel bit at his lip. He slipped off the edge of his bed, stepping carefully closer to the resting tome. "I couldn't possibly learn by myself, though," he said, glancing at the window to the darkness still lingering outside. "And you'll be gone, back to Redwall."

"Hmm, that is a problem, isn't it?" Hedwyn shrugged. "Well, I suppose I'll have to make more frequent trips here, then."

Bechtel picked up the tome, cradling it and its utensils against his chest like a sleeping child. He shook his head in disbelief. "But I… I don't know how to repay you. There's nothing I can do."

Hedwyn pressed his paws together and smiled. "Good. I'm not asking for payment."

Bechtel sat down and set the inkwell and quill delicately to his side. Flipping open the tome, he inhaled deeply of the aged pages. He could see himself once more in Atrus' study, hundreds of books surrounding him. For a brief glimmer, he felt the comfort and peace he had long lost.

When it faded away, Bechtel wiped the tears from his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. "I'm not sure where to start."

"Ah, that part is easy." Hedwyn resumed his perch atop the stool and assumed the posture of a teacher. "Let's go where all things start: at the beginning."

~.~.~.~

 _I did not seek to write a history, as much as I did a story._

 _This was the story of many beasts._

 _The Fatherless, who grasped power but not peace._

 _The Lost, who cast off his hatred._

 _The Searching, who vanished from sight._

 _The Brokenhearted, who found each other._

 _And the Orphan, whose claws lay empty of offering, but was offered much._

 _His name was Bechtel, and his name is my name._

Bechtel flipped the lid of the inkwell shut and cleaned the quill tip of any remaining ink. He set the quill down across the wingtips of the little marshland statue, then smiled at the ink speckling both bat of flesh and of wood. Turning to the book before him, he ran a tender claw over the finished page. He saw none of the thousands of words written on the hundreds of pages, but he knew each remained where it belonged.

It was over. After many years, much learning, and far more toiling, the record of his past was done. It had been delayed more often than he would have liked – set aside as more pressing concerns arose or he waited for the right words to flow from his wingtips – but it was finally done.

He waited for the rush of finality or pride to strike him. After a moment, he chuckled, realizing all he felt was a tiredness in his writing wing and a rumbling hunger in his gut.

Behind him, he heard the clack of a latch and the whine of the Gatehouse door opening.

"Brother Bechtel…?" a whistle-thin voice asked, followed by a slow patter entering the darkened room.

"At my desk, Sister Calla."

Calla squeaked, stumbling back and striking a ladder propped by a bookshelf. Paws flailing out, she made to steady the ladder, but only succeeded in pushing it further.

Shoving his chair back, Bechtel flew up and caught the falling ladder before it struck the ground. Straightening it once more, he tucked his wings in and rested on top. The dim light from the windows above illuminated his form, highlighting the grin spread across his face.

"Is there something I can help you with, Sister?"

Calla stared up at him, then puffed her cheeks out and stomped her feet. "Really, Brother Bechtel, you mustn't do your work in the dark like some ragamuffin! Think of what it will do to your eyesight!"

"It suits my eyes quite well, actually."

"Then have some pity on the rest of us. You nearly sent my heart into my throat, by Martin!"

"I'll see about lighting some candles while I work." Bechtel fluttered down from the ladder to Calla's side, spotting the basket filled with carrots and potatoes tucked into the crook of her arm. "Ah, is it harvesting time already?"

Calla smoothed down the spikes atop her head. "Yes. I was just coming to see if you would like to help the Dibbuns with the strawberries. You know how much they love working with you and hearing your stories."

"And how much you love having a break from watching them." Bechtel winked, pulling a loose-fitting tunic from beside the Gatehouse door.

"Bless you," Calla said, walking over to his chair and collapsing in it. "They're wonderful, but a right responsibility, they are. I wonder if it was easier in the days when we had a badgermum."

"No badgermum is half the worth of a Callamum."

Calla wagged a paw his way. "Oh, stop your teasin'." She paused, turning to the desk. Squinting her eyes, she leaned forward and studied the open page. "Oh my, have you finished it, then?"

Bechtel nodded, pulling the tunic over his shoulders. "Just now, in fact."

"Strike me 'eart, you've been workin' on this since you first arrived here. What's it been now, twelve seasons?"

"Thirteen."

Calla pressed a paw to her chest. "Ohh… if only Brother Hedwyn could have seen it to the end. I know how close you two were—I'm sure he would have loved to seen it finished."

Bechtel stared at the open tome for a moment. The ache of Hedwyn's passing but a season ago lay still fresh within him, but no despair followed it. With a somber smile, he said, "It's all right. He already knew how the story ended."

Calla smiled. "That he did."

The rambunctious shouts of a pack of unsupervised Dibbuns caught both of their ears, drawing their attention back to the doorway.

"Well, back into the fray, it is," Calla said, standing up and hefting her basket with the renewed vigor of a working maiden. She paused at the door, glancing back at the book. "You know, it's a right amazing story you have." She poked a finger in his chest, then nodded outside the door. "Don't keep it locked in this dusty old house. You've already got an eager audience in your paws."

Bechtel clicked his tongue twice and let the echoes spread outside. The lush lawn and majestic buildings of Redwall Abbey rose to his sight. He smelled the fresh dew on the grass, the sight and smell filling his heart with wonder all over again.

Past Skipper and his band of otters wheeling in barrel-loads of grain, he spotted a dozen Dibbuns rushing to-and-fro between the working beasts. They were the orphaned children cared for by the Abbey, parents lost to disaster or wicked creatures. Some beasts in the Abbey grew vexed with their persistent antics, with even Calla – the Abbey Caretaker - reaching her breaking point from time to time. And yet, seeing them, all Bechtel could recall is the times they had come to him in tears, seeking answers for the great brokenness they felt within their little hearts.

"You know, I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon than just picking strawberries." Bechtel walked to his desk and picked up his completed tome. "And afterwards, I think a story by the orchard shade would be wonderful."

Calla returned his smile and stepped outside, and behind her, Bechtel shut the door to the Gatehouse and walked into the waiting day.


	48. Deployment

_A Falling Hourglass is a collaboration between six authors; each with their own designated character. Some of the characters will live. Some of them may die. After eight rounds, the story will come to an end. As always, be sure to let us know what you think and leave a review!_

* * *

 **Deployment**

 _By: Ander (Epilogue)_

* * *

Bechtel grunted as he knelt to move the remainder of the collected berries into his basket. His bones protested his hurried pace, but the nighttime breeze, however pleasant, rose unrelenting in its threat to ferry his bounty down the hill.

The berry fields lay long vacant around him, the other Redwallers having retreated to the shelter and comfort of stone walls and warm fires. They urged him to wait until the morning when the winds were less irritable, but no summer puffing could stop him from bringing smiles to each of those young faces. There was one Dibbun in particular, an enthusiastic young fellow named Rory, which the bat reckoned would be the most excited upon his return. The little mouse had begged to come, but it was far too late for him to be out.

Fruit now stored carefully in the basket, he stood up, stretched, and slung the handle round his claw.

The song of chirping crickets lingered, despite the whistling wind. Bechtel listened a moment, then turned and started on his way back to Redwall.

"Hello?" he called, though the wind quickly swept the echoes away before they returned to him. He heard the grass rustle under the approaching pawsteps, but no call rose to greet him.

Caution prickled along his spine, until he remembered a similar incident not a month ago. With a chuckle, he walked forward. "Rory, is that you again? Calla will have a fit if she-"

Bechtel froze mid-stride, the trickle of words piercing through the wind long enough for him to see. Two beasts hunkered low in a nearby patch of grass, wearing rough, patched-over clothing. Confusion fell to alarm as he saw their wicked fangs and sharpened daggers clutched in waiting paws-vermin, a rat and a ferret.

They perked up upon being noticed, the ferret looking ready to bolt, the rat gripping his weapon tighter.

Calling upon prior run-ins with vermin families throughout the Moss, Bechtel steadied his nerves and pushed aside the fear favoured by his fellow Brothers and Sisters. Spreading his wings peacefully to his sides, he said, "Don't be afraid. You simply caught me by surprise. I'm Brother Bechtel of Redwall-can I help either of you?"

The rat and ferret glanced at each other.

"From Redwall, he says," the rat snickered.

The ferret wrung his paws together. "A-Aye, but we was jus' checkin' old Redwall out, wasn't we, Dacey?"

The rat allowed a grin to spread across his face. "Yes. We... were."

Bechtel only had time to drop the basket of berries as the younger, leaner creature charged forward and seized him by the wings. He felt himself fall, smelled the salt and grime of the rat's fur, heard the snarl of a beast hungry for blood. And suddenly, he felt the heat of a foreign sun, heard the crowds roar for death, and knew only one thing: survive.

In a single motion, he twisted sharply against his attacker's momentum and slammed the rat down beneath him. Seizing the creature's surprise, he stabbed a claw for the throat. Foolish, leaving it so exposed. Inexperience and youth would grant him a quick death, then it would be onto the next day of-

The rat jerked to the side, screaming out as the talon sliced across his eye, sending flecks of blood spurting up. Bechtel gasped, and at once, he found himself back in the windswept hillside of Mossflower. He stared at the blood dripping from his claw, and at the squirming creature beneath him.

"Get him, Rotsnout!" howled the rat.

Something collided against his side, sending him tumbling in the grass. He did not resist as he felt steel press against his neck.

"Don't move. Yer comin' with us, _Redwaller_."

~.~.~.~

They passed through a campsite, complete with tents, open fires, and multitudes of snoring vermin soldiers, armed to the teeth but in this moment at rest. The bat jerked his head to the left, the smell of burning meat hitting his nose.

An army like this could only want one thing, being this close to Redwall, and Bechtel didn't like it.

The vermin he had on both his wings, however, did not lend him more time to cling to the thought. They tightened their holds and frogmarched him straight through the center of the camp and off into the dark. Upturned dirt and pinecones whisked by under his footpaws.

Pulling to a halt in a gloomy, soundless area of forest, the rat let go of Bechtel.

"Wait here, Rotsnout," Dacey commanded, shuffling away from them with his right paw still clutching his bloodied eye. Bechtel jumped at the rat's sudden loud, abrasive knocking, and sent out a click to analyze the ornately carved wooden carriage which loomed over them like a monster.

Dacey's knocking was followed by scuffling, and then the door creaked open and out stepped a feeble old rat with a rounded nose and generally inoffensive features. He stood taller than Dacey, and imminently honed in on the young rat, fluttering about the wounded rodent in a fretful manner.

"Why'd yew got yer paw like that, Dacey?" he agonized. "Sommat wrong wit' yer eye? Can I see? What 'appened?"

"I got a Redwaller for His Majesty to question, that's what!" Dacey snarled. Having said just that, he shoved past the elder and stomped right back down the ladder, passing Bechtel and Rotsnout and making frenzied flaps with his free paw. They watched him go.

"Idiot!" Dacey's parting cry silenced the crickets' song.

The old rat nervously beckoned to them, and Rotsnout gulped, then hauled Bechtel up the stairs.

 _The vermin have a leader._

The bat stiffened. He caught his breath. It seemed as though his Abbey's past had come full circle to exist in the waking world. Rotsnout shoved him through the door, and he fell on his knees, only to have the blade pressed once again to his neck. The old rat shut the door and scampered inside after him, remaining in the corner to make sure that the handful of functional locks that decorated the door were all tightly sealed.

The cabin was musty and cluttered and stunk of cobwebs and stale wine. His focus was skewed, but Bechtel saw a desk and a large chair against one wall, among weapons and treasure and tiny, empty, antique-looking glass vials and various other objects. For holding so many valuables, there was little actual effort in making the place look nice. A rough, detailed woven rug broke up the wood floor, and on it, the bat could see, was dried blood.

Bechtel attempted to remain calm.

He'd lived his life. Yes, it was long and good, and whatever horrible fate lie in wait for him in these quarters of the leader of the vermin horde was nothing compared to what he had endured as a youngster. His friends would remember him fondly. He was ready...

The cringing old rat, finished with the last lock, tiptoed past the bat and ferret, knocked clumsily into a pile of books, and disappeared behind a silken curtain.

Bechtel pricked his ears. The paw Rotsnout had on his shoulder became clammy.

The bat could still hear the rat, but the rat only.

"S-Sir?" came the muffled question. "Dacey an' Rotsnout brought back a Redwaller." Some low murmuring, and then- "Y-Yeah, Yer Kingness, a _Redwaller_."

The rat was jostled right back out by the other creature, who walked slowly, then stopped, and stooped to select a sword from the assortment.

Bechtel, his heart pounding against his ribs, tried to read the animal that would inevitably bring his doom. He probably some sort of stoat or weasel or ferret, and by the way he walked, weighed and frazzled with age, but the bat, certain of his nearing end, could no longer focus.

"Let me see the Redwaller Dimmy so dully described, Rotsnout," the king rasped, straightening up.

"Says 'e's from Redwall." Rotsnout took a shuddering breath. "He's a bat."

The room descended into silence for a moment, broken only by each creature's shallow breathing. Then, at last-as if having grappled with something-the king marched up to the kneeling Redwall Elder.

Bechtel sent out another forlorn click; it was a weasel, older than him by almost a decade. His sides heaved.

The king's frizzled tail lashed back and forth. He spoke aggressively to Rotsnout. "Did the prisoner tell you his name?"

"Yessir." The ferret bobbed his head. "He's Brother Becktell o' Redwall Abbey."

The weasel's eyes bulged in their sockets, a snakelike hiss rising from his throat. His thin fur spiked up and bristled. Gracelessly, he ran to the back of the room and brought out a lit candelabra, the light of which caught Bechtel and his ferret captor off guard.

"Get out!" the king roared.

Rotsnout let loose a horrified gasp. "B-But..."

"Leave him, and get out!"

The ferret leapt up and scrambled for the exit. Then the king turned on Dimmy, but the old rat was quick in chasing after Rotsnout. The door slammed shut after them, leaving only Bechtel... and the king, in the lit room.

One more click, and Bechtel saw the hideous scars that cut and ruined the weasel's face. In horrifying silence, Bechtel recognized the beast.

~.~.~.~

Ander couldn't bring himself to look at Bechtel, and yet he did.

The weasel, frizzled, and, in places, gaunt- with streaks of gray fur and an ostentatious yellow and red tunic which ruffled at the wrists, thrown over top by a matching, though brighter, cape, which was meticulously embroidered with gems and lined with the warm brown pelt of a slain otter... felt as if he had driven his own dagger into his stomach the moment he allowed his eyes to gobble up the bat's appearance.

Bechtel had mellowed with age. The tufted fur around his neck was gray and beardlike, hanging over a pleasant green habit which was cut specially for his wings. Redwall had its marks all over him, and the bat returned his stare with surprise of his own.

The paw in which Ander grasped the candelabra began to shake. His metallic crown, which was dull and displayed faded bloodstains, slithered forward on his head. He couldn't keep his anger from boiling up.

"Your shock astounds me," whispered the king, grinding his words out. "This... should have been _exactly_ what you expected."

Bechtel swallowed, then shook his head numbly. "N-No... you're _dead_." His ears drooped. "You _died_."

"Did I?!" Ander shrieked.

Bechtel fell back onto the wood planks.

"No!" snarled Ander, thrusting the candles in his face. "Instead of dying, I rose to be the most _powerful_ warlord to _ever_ walk this world!" Gagging giggles, sounding to the unacquainted ear more like sobs, hiccupped from his throat. "King Ander, Ruler of All!"

Bechtel, in his numbness, said nothing, and Ander's raspy breathing leeched on the following silence.

Finally, he tore his eyes off the bat, setting the candelabra on the desk and curling his paws around himself. His breathing slowed, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, his back to the bat. "...In all the time you spent as a paltry Redwaller, I claimed many a land. Your beautiful _Abbey_... will be my final hurrah, the shining memento of my achievement."

"What?" Bechtel scrambled to his paws. "Y-you can't!"

The fur on the back of Ander's neck prickled. "You sound like all the rest. 'Can' and 'can't,' preaching to me even as I prove them wrong."

He heard a growl issue behind him. "Redwall has stood against worse threats, and survived. You will be no different!"

Ander clenched his fist and turned back around to glare at the old bat. "Don't compare me to those common creatures. Fools and failures, all of them!" He stalked towards the bat. "They wanted Redwall for the glory, for the blood, but that's _all_. It was only ever a want. But I... I don't care for that. I _need_ Redwall."

His grip tightened around the handle of his sword almost to the point of fatigue. "I need it more than you'll ever need _anything_."

After Ander said this, something flickered through Bechtel's face. The anger and shock dissipated into the bat's wrinkled features, replaced with something else; that same _pitying_ look he wore that night, so many years ago, in the frozen wastelands of Marshank. And yet, this time, it lacked malice, or perhaps now Ander was not too blind to recognize its true form.

Bechtel folded in his wings and drew in a deep, steadying breath. "Ander..." he murmured, "it isn't too late, you know." He blinked sympathetically. "You don't need to do _this_. The Redwallers can still accept you."

 _Accept me?_ At first, the weasel said nothing. The glower which he forced to stay on his face twitched and spasmed, replaced by a longing frown. _In what kind of world could they ever accept me?_ He had to shut his eyes.

"What is Redwall like?"

"...It's peaceful." Bechtel seemed taken aback by the question, but a small smile crept across his face. "Everyone... belongs, and you're never alone. You can feel it in the grass and smell it in the air. Redwall... Redwall is... a giant family, more or less. They're my family, and I am theirs."

Ander took in a shaky breath. "That sounds pleasant."

"No, it's more than that. It's... it's good. It's _right_."

"And their virtues?" The weasel cracked open one tired brown eye. "Are they kind, and are they decent?"

"They offered me everything I never deserved."

Ander lingered where he stood, both eyes open now and staring yearningly at Bechtel. His shoulders drooped.

"Ander," Bechtel continued softly, "You know how this ends. Not just for you, but for all those beasts out there. Choose life. Please, this time, choose life."

Ander made no motion save for the twitching of his eyes for a very long time. Then he abruptly grimaced, convulsed, and shuddered, the medals on his chest clinking like disharmonious chimes. "...You lie, Outrageous Wretch."

The hope in Bechtel's face withered to ash. He suddenly looked very old, very weak, and very piteous. "No," the bat gasped. "Please, Ander, I have no reason to lie to yo-"

Ander came at him with the sword and seized him by the habit collar, shaking him roughly. "Fiend! You lie! Everything you have ever said to me- a ruse, a scheme! It is no different now!"

He wrestled the struggling bat over to the door and hastily undid the locks, then released him on the platform of the cabin, trembling violently.

"Cunning _trickster_."

"Ander..."

"No!" The weasel again lunged forward, and Bechtel slipped and tumbled down the stairs, landing roughly in the dirt below. Ander watched through hooded eyes as the bat picked himself up.

"Out of the courtesy of my heart," he growled, raising a paw over his chest, "I shall give you time to prepare your... 'family'... for my arrival."

Bechtel stared at him for a lingering second.

Ander's lip curled. "I attack at dawn."

With one despairing shake of his head, the old bat turned and lifted off into the air. He never looked back. The rhythmic beats of his gnarled yet healed wings remained the only sound that broke through the night's silence.

Ander observed as Bechtel grew smaller and smaller in the starry sky, until he vanished completely. Then, with his head held high, the weasel turned his face to the moon.

 **[THE END]**


End file.
